The Break
by Loafer
Summary: Lassiter tries to make changes in order to deal with what he thinks are his unrequited feelings for Juliet. This is LASSIET. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1: The Break

**Disclaimer**: okay, let's go through the motions again: I don't own anything related to _**psych**_, I'm borrowing these characters with no evil intentions, and Bob's your uncle, even if he's not.

**Rating**: **T** (but will get s**M**utty later on).

**Summary**: I've previously written about Lassiter leaving, and I like the theme (trying to move on), but then it occurred to me it's possible to leave without leaving. In other words, Lassiter tries to make changes in order to deal with (what he thinks are) his unrequited feelings for Juliet. Set during S6, but no Marlowe. If you've read me before, you don't need to be told this is LASSIET.

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_Sometimes a long memory is a good thing._

Lassiter remembered the day she said it; their one-year anniversary as partners.

"Chief Vick says molding young officers is your duty."

_Yeah. _

_Well, this one is molded. It's been over six years. _

_That's a perfect excuse for separation_.

. . . _But you don't really _want _to be separated_.

_Well, I_ need _to be._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He went to Vick's office, tapping on her door lightly.

"Yes?" she inquired with only a brief glance up from her laptop screen.

"I've been looking at our lineup of detectives now that Barnes is retiring, and I want to run some changes by you. It doesn't have to be now, but it won't take long."

He remained in the doorway until she nodded for him to come in.

Placing a sheet of paper in front of her, he said noncommittally, "Most of the partnerships will remain the same, but I'd like Garrison to be with Inman, Collins with O'Hara, and I'll take the rookie we're getting in two weeks."

Vick looked at the names for a moment until the penny dropped, and her look upward was sharp. "You want to split from O'Hara?"

_Not want to. _Need _to._

"My job responsibilities include training new detectives. It's time for me to take that up again, wouldn't you say?"

She frowned, leaning back in her chair, still holding the paper. "Detective Lassiter, you were in here a few months ago asking for a new partner and you never once mentioned training new detectives as a reason. Is there a problem between you and O'Hara?"

"Absolutely not," he said, and it was true, at least the way she meant it. "But in order for both of us to keep—and possibly improve—our skills, change _is_ necessary."

"Huh," she said, obviously not entirely satisfied with his perfectly logical answer. "And what does O'Hara say about this?"

Lassiter paused and then said flatly, "With all due respect, Chief, you've left me in the position of Head Detective so I can organize the squad the way I see fit, according to protocol and with your approval. What she has to say about it, or for that matter, what Garrison, Inman and Collins have to say about it, doesn't _need_ to factor into any decision about what's best for the squad as a whole. O'Hara and Collins are a good fit, Collins already meshes well with Spencer, and we're all here to do good police work, aren't we?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "Spencer? We make partnership assignments around Spencer now?"

He took a breath. "We might as well. He seems to own the place."

Vick sat up straight. "I can't help but take offense at that, Detective."

No doubt, although offending her hadn't been his intention. "Tell me he doesn't do whatever the _hell_ he feels like, on any case, whether it's here or at a crime scene."

For a few moments she just glared at him. "So you're proposing O'Hara lead all the cases Psych's hired for?"

"That's actually _your_ call, but why not?"

"How about appearance of impropriety? I've been looking the other way on this, but it's not exactly a _good_ thing, departmentally, that one of my detectives is dating the consultant she regularly works with, and who happens to be _the_ most media-attention-focused one we've got."

"Well, it's also not exactly a good thing that the man in charge of _hiring_ consultants is his father, either, but that's gone on a while, hasn't it?"

She glared at him anew, but didn't argue the point; she was the one who'd asked Henry to take the job in the first place. "Look, all I can tell you is that I'm not fooled by the apparent reasonableness of your request. You don't just decide to split from the best partner you ever had, your partner for over six years, so you can keep up with your job skills."

Lassiter looked at her steadily, choosing and setting aside a number of responses which could get him reprimanded and/or fired. "Chief, let's not waste each other's time. I'm trying to improve the squad as a whole. Either approve the changes, or don't. I won't question your decision." He walked out rapidly, and she didn't call him back in.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet was on her way into the ladies' room as Vick was coming out, but Vick turned around and followed her in.

"O'Hara," she said too casually. "Everything okay here at work for you?"

"Sure, Chief. Why?"

"No problems, no interpersonal conflicts, no... trouble of any kind?"

Juliet knew she was giving her a funny look. "Well, the new station manager makes lousy coffee, everyone I've arrested this week has smelled really bad, and I got a paper cut while unjamming the copier, but other than that, things are pretty normal."

Vick hesitated. "Everything okay with your partner?"

This set off several alarm bells. Truth was, everything was not okay with her partner. He'd been distant, quieter than usual, more remote than ever; but he was treating her perfectly well and there wasn't any one thing she could point at to tell Vick about, even if she were willing to confide uncertainties to her in the first place. Juliet never liked to help anyone find fault with Carlton. He was misunderstood and underrated by far too many people who would never get a chance to know him the way she did. "So far as I know, everything's as it should be, Chief. Is there something in particular you're concerned about?"

She still hesitated. "No, I guess not. You would tell me if there was a problem, right?"

Would she? Well, yes. Karen Vick was definitely A Good Egg. "If there was a problem I couldn't solve on my own or with Carlton's help, absolutely."

"All right then." Vick smiled brightly and left the room, and Juliet pondered over this until the next copier jam.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The sheet of assignments dropped to the blotter atop his monthly statistics close to six, when Vick was on her way home. He looked up at her, trying to judge her expression.

"I'll approve this, Detective, because I _do_ trust your judgment and I _do_ believe you have the best interests of the department at heart." Lower, she added, "I don't, however, believe it's that simple, but the greater good _is_ worth pursuing. You can put this into effect as soon as you like."

"Thank you, Chief." He moved the paper to his top drawer, and told her good night.

Now he had to tell O'Hara.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He did seriously consider telling her at the same time everyone else found out, but the words "coward" and "uncool" and "roadkill" kept swirling in his head, and honestly he knew she deserved better and certainly he'd have shot dead anyone _else_ who gave her news like this, devoid of personal communication, devoid of any recognition of the time they'd spent together as partners.

So he was only half-cowardly.

He went to the coffee bar while she was getting her first cup of the day and said quietly, "I'm making some partnership reassignments ahead of the new guy coming in. You'll be with Collins starting next week so I can train the rookie."

"Oh, I... what?" She turned so fast, her blue eyes startled, that she almost spilled her coffee. "_What?_"

"Collins needs a little more direction than he got from Barnes and you're just the ticket." He explained a little more, adding details, but he wasn't sure she was focusing judging by the stunned look on her face.

In fact—to his shock—her hand seemed to be shaking, and she carefully put the cup down. "Carlton, I don't understand. Why are you doing this?"

"There's nothing to understand," he said calmly. _Not at _all_ calmly_. "It's for the good of the squad. Plus, Spencer doesn't have issues with Collins like he does with me, so things should go a lot more smoothly whenever Psych's involved."

She was staring at him, obviously shocked and confused. "We've been partners for over six years. Why are you... breaking us up?"

_We were already broken_.

He bit back impatience, because, again, she deserved better, and he hated having put this hurt look on her lovely face. "O'Hara, we each have jobs to do which surpass our personal preferences. And you're ready."

"I don't feel ready. I don't feel ready at all. Don't I get a say in this? About keeping the partner I have?"

"It's not about having a say," he tried again, thinking of his words to Vick, and knowing better than to use them here.

"Then what is it about? Because I thought I had the best partner and unless you don't think I was the best partner for you, I'm beyond confused." Some ire had crept into her tone, and unexpectedly, it made him relax a little.

"If you're the best partner for someone like me, O'Hara, then imagine how much more of a best partner you'll be to someone who actually fits in better with humanity." He turned away, but she followed him to his desk.

"What the hell does that mean?" she hissed.

"It means you're overreacting to what is, at most, a fairly simple change of routine. Starting next week, you work cases with Collins. I'm still here, the coffee will still be bad unless we can shoot the damned office manager, and life goes on. I'm not doing it to hurt you."

Juliet's gaze was fierce and actually made him a little nervous. "And I have no say."

He said dryly, "At the moment you look as if I'm the _last_ person you want as a partner."

"At the moment, you _are_," she retorted. "But after I get over wanting to kill you, you're the partner I want most."

Such sweet words, spoken so angrily. "Then I'll have to make sure you go on wanting to kill me, won't I?"

"I guess you will. You've just ruined my morning, so you're already ahead of the game." She strode back to the coffee bar, heels clicking on the tile floor.

Lassiter sighed. He knew he was doing the right thing for himself, but that didn't mean it would be smooth sailing.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet had listened, astonished and then stunned and surprisingly hurt, as he explained rationally that his job was to train new detectives, and with Barnes retiring and a rookie coming in, he thought he should take the rookie under his wing and assign Juliet to Barnes' young partner, Collins.

He said, with perfect good sense, that she would then be a senior partner, which would be good for her resume as well as enriching her experience, plus she was more than ready for it after six years with _him_. He then had the nerve to apologize for "holding her back" too long.

While she was staring at him in utter shock, he said the most hurtful thing of all: he wanted her to change desks, to sit nearer Collins on the other side of the room. Logically—for all of this was _soooo_ damnably logical—it would be easier for both the rookie and Collins to not be overly intimidated by their former partnership, and to solidify their new partnerships more quickly.

Bastard.

There wasn't a thing she could say other than to ask him _why_ repeatedly, because none of this sensible crap made any damned sense, and she knew it was crap because while he was explaining it all so calmly, his sea-blue eyes were hiding so much.

"_I'm not doing it to hurt you," he'd said. _

_But you _are _hurting me_. _What did I do? Why don't you even want to have to see me anymore?_

**. . . .**

**. . .**

It was done. He'd told her what he'd decided, and it was done.

Lassiter stood at the window of his condo, looking out at the flowerpot on the patio table, waiting for the rain to fall. Waiting to feel 'good' about his decision.

It had been the right one; he knew that. But it still felt like a jagged wound, a wound acquired a few weeks earlier which showed no signs of healing.

He'd been at the counter in Booking, head down while he puzzled over a particularly bizarre arrest report (peanut butter? feathers? mimes? microwaves?), and heard Spencer and Guster coming in, having one of their frequent heated-but-not-really-whispering arguments about some crap he already knew he didn't care about. He turned slightly, hoping to stay off their radar.

It worked, except then he heard something he wished he hadn't heard.

"Did you give the ring back to your dad yet?"

"Gus, I _told_ you I would."

"Yes, Shawn, you _told_ me you would, but you didn't tell me you _did_. You have to give that ring back, because if you don't either he's going to figure out you stole it, or Juliet's going to find it in one of your damned toys."

"Look. I… I may not be ready to postpone this whole marriage thing yet. I'm not saying I'm not, but you know, I'm not saying I am, and I just think maybe I should hold on to it and…"

Their voices faded as they got further away, or maybe just because Lassiter was turning to a block of aching ice.

The moron was going to propose to Juliet.

Juliet was going to marry Spencer.

. . . because of course she would.

And Lassiter wouldn't survive that. His heart wouldn't survive that.

So the idea had come to him; how to logically, cleanly, professionally and seemingly impartially separate himself from the woman he loved but could not have, the woman who inexplicably loved Spencer and would in all likelihood marry him.

Having her change desks was the best—'best'?—part of all. Now he'd only have to see her in passing or during briefings, or at the coffee bar. Time only for pleasantries. And since he was notoriously bad at pleasantries, those would go by the wayside soon enough.

He was moved by her clearly unhappy reaction to the news… yet at the same time knew she'd quickly become too busy with Collins to make any polite attempts to remain close to her old partner. She was a nice person but she would let him go, because they were so different, and she would enjoy a less stressful partnership with the more mild-mannered Collins.

Raindrops began to hit the patio table.

Lassiter sighed.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet was at a loss. She felt as if she were wandering around in a daze, uncertain of the most basic foundation of her life.

She went to see Vick while Carlton was out of the station, and closed the door behind her.

The Chief gave her a raised-eyebrow look. "Yes?"

"This change of partners," she began.

"Is there a problem?"

"Yes. No. I mean, yes. I have a problem." She sat in one of the chairs, hands in her lap.

Vick put her pen down. "I admit I was surprised when Lassiter proposed splitting you up, but it's a sound plan and seems to benefit everyone."

"I suppose it does," Juliet answered, feeling small.

"But?"

"But I don't want a new partner." There. She'd said it.

Leaning back in her chair, expression speculative now, Vick asked, "Are you saying there are reasons Lassiter _didn't_ give me for this change? Personal reasons, for example?"

"I'm saying I don't want a new partner, and that I know Carlton well enough to know he'd never make a change like this unless there _were_ personal reasons."

"But you can't guess what they are?"

_Wait… why use the words "can't guess" instead of "don't know"?_

"Does that mean you _do_ know what they are?"

Vick sat up straight, not amused. "I'm not in the habit of playing games with my employees, Detective. Lassiter's stated reasons for the shakeup are valid and logical. If you can present any information which contradicts that, feel free to share it."

But she couldn't. Suppositions wouldn't cut it. Feelings certainly wouldn't.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

On Monday of what would be the second long lonely week without O'Hara, Lassiter was looking forward to the new junior detective starting more than he'd expected.

James Grimaldi, twenty-six, from Ventura, buzz cut and no-nonsense manner, was purported to have an eye for detail and a patient manner which his previous commanding officers thought would serve him well with the painstaking detail work of what Shawn Spencer called 'detectivosity.'

At the moment he was at his desk—_Juliet's desk_—looking over the current casefiles, and as if summoned by Lassiter having thought his name, Spencer himself bounded down the main hall—Gus at his heels, of course.

"Ju—" he began, stopping when he saw Grimaldi. "Well, hello there. How nice of you to keep Detective O'Hara's chair warm."

Grimaldi eyed him suspiciously (_good call_, Lassiter thought). "May I help you? Civilians aren't supposed to be in this area."

"I'm no civilian," Spencer said magnanimously. "I'm SBPD's head psychic. Shawn Spencer. You know."

"Actually I don't, and I didn't know the city employed psychics." He glanced at Gus. "Are you the _junior_ psychic?"

There was just enough 'tone' in his tone to make Lassiter proud.

"I'm Burton Guster, and we're—"

Spencer interrupted. "Where's Juliet? Detective O'Hara?"

Grimaldi pointed to the northwest corner of the room. "Her desk is back there."

So smug was Spencer. "Au contraire, my not very good man. It is _you_ who must be the civilian." Turning, he spotted Lassiter and pointed triumphantly, as if about to announce a major clue in an unknown investigation.

Lassiter cut off whatever he'd been about to say. "O'Hara's out of the building until after lunch, Spencer. You're more than welcome to get out of the building too."

"Like that ever works." He bounced his way closer to Lassiter. "So why's this guy sitting at her desk?"

"He's not. He's sitting at _his_ desk."

It was entertaining to watch the man puzzle over this, but not as interesting as Lassiter's sudden realization that Juliet must not have told him about the partnership change.

Psych hadn't been called in last week (or this week, for that matter), but for Spencer to still be unaware was unexpected. (Truthfully, for them to not have come scrounging around for work was also unexpected.)

"Detective Grimaldi," he said, gesturing. "Grimaldi, Spencer and Guster are among the more notorious of our consultants. They have no title or rank on the force; they merely get paid when they get results."

Grimaldi nodded. "Understood. Shouldn't they be wearing visitor badges?"

"Yes, they should," said Henry Spencer, breezing past to his own desk. "Shawn, what have I told you about that?"

Gus made a point of adjusting _his_ clearly visible badge.

"Forget the badge. What haven't you told me about Juliet's desk being moved? And why the hell would anyone put partners in opposite corners of the room?"

"We didn't," Lassiter said coolly. "O'Hara is seated near her new partner, Detective Collins. Now unless Henry has a case for you, you're excused." He strode off, pretty damned sure he was under no obligation to explain anything of any sort to Juliet's future idiot husband.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet returned from the dentist's office with a slightly sore jaw—overenthusiastic hygienist—and under the same cloud of faint despair she'd been dogged by for well over a week now.

It should have pleased her to see Shawn and Gus coming out of the police station as she walked from her car, but it didn't.

"Jules!" he yelled when he saw her, and she squared her shoulders. There was no way he didn't know now what she'd avoided telling him so far.

"Hi, Shawn." She didn't invite a kiss, and not just because Gus was there. "Was I expecting you? I've been to the dentist."

"Teeth are important," Gus said knowingly. "I'd brush after every meal, but since we eat constantly, my toothpaste budget would go through the roof."

"He speaks the truth," Shawn agreed. "But Jules—what the hell's up with you not being partnered with Lassie anymore?"

"Change is inevitable." She spoke lightly, as if it were no big deal, instead of the big damned deal it felt like.

"But you've been partners for three years now."

"Six and a half," she said patiently. "But I'm not a junior detective anymore, and it's time for me to get more experience."

"So this was your idea?"

It was Gus asking, and she glanced at him. "No."

Shawn was surprised. "It was _Lassie's_ idea? What happened?"

"Nothing happened," she lied, because even though nothing had happened, something sure as hell must have happened.

"I mean, of course it's good news, but still—"

"It's not good news," she snapped, which made her jaw hurt. "It's just change."

"Then why all the secrecy?"

_Why indeed._

"Because I knew you would act like this, and I wasn't in the mood." She brushed by him, but he came after her; Gus wisely hung back.

"Act like what? Myself?"

"Yes," she muttered, still walking.

"Jules," he coaxed, "I'm just surprised you didn't mention it. I know you and Lassie have a thing, and…"

She had no idea what the rest of the sentence was. She stared at him blindly, seeing his mouth moving, but deaf to whatever he was babbling.

… _a thing…_

_A partnership, best-friend thing. Yes._

_A why-can't-I-stop-trying-to-figure-this-out? thing._

_A why-do-I-feel-so-rejected? thing._

_A why-do-I-miss-him-so-much? thing._

Shawn had stopped speaking, and was waiting for some response.

"I can't talk now," she said, and turned away.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Collins was genial, but sharper than his mild manner indicated. He was happily—and newly—married, so he didn't have any ideas about Juliet (she didn't know why having Shawn as a boyfriend wasn't barrier enough in her mind, except that for all his 'show,' Shawn didn't come across as much of a threat). He was willing to work hard and he was good with witnesses.

She liked him. They could learn from each other, and he was safe.

But he wasn't Carlton.

Middle of the third week.

She was thinking of The Break as a discrete point in time at which her life had changed.

She was also drinking a lot more coffee. Actually, she wasn't drinking more; she was just _getting_ more. Going to the coffee bar allowed her a glimpse of Carlton.

Occasionally he would look up and smile at her—cautiously—and it was startling how much that smile meant to her, especially when his blue gaze was steady and yet still hinted at what he wasn't saying.

It bothered her that sometimes she planned her coffee run to coincide with him heading that way himself.

It bothered her that he spoke politely to her but of nothing in particular—_how are things with Collins, what's the latest on your sushi chef homicide, damn this coffee's bad_.

She was so shut out. So completely shut out.

Only those smiles when he looked up from his desk were real.

And once… once she had gone for coffee and not looked his way, but felt him watching her. The station was quiet, Grimaldi away from his desk, and she _felt_ Carlton's attention.

It was unnerving… not because it was creepy or weird, but because she…

Well, because she _liked_ it.

She found herself making coffee more slowly than she ever had before, simply to prolong the sensation that he was curious about her too. That he might miss her.

It didn't last—his phone rang—and she didn't dare look his way before heading back to her desk. But she knew she hadn't imagined it.

And this awareness was doing some funny things to her late at night.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter seldom slept well as a general rule unless he self-medicated, but he didn't like to _have_ to have a drink to get to sleep, so many were the nights he lay awake a long time hoping sleep would find him.

It wasn't finding him much these days.

He believed—he had to believe—he would feel better in time. It was still early in the break, and nothing was 'normal' yet.

But he couldn't help but watch Juliet at work; he couldn't help but follow her movements in the station. If Collins had been single—Spencer be damned—he'd have been jealous beyond belief… yet he was jealous anyway, because Collins got to talk to her, ride to crime scenes with her, talk to witnesses and suspects with her. Collins got to stand at her side during briefings and was the first to know her mood for the day.

Collins got her at work, and Spencer got her at night.

And Lassiter got out of bed and poured a drink because he was an idiot.

But at least he was an idiot with hope… however faint… that he could get past this.

Eventually.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Henry Spencer came to Juliet's desk at the end of the third week when Collins was down in Booking and Carlton was out with Grimaldi on a call (she always knew when he was out; she _sensed_ it) to ask for some information on the sushi chef case.

She handed him the case file. "Collins spotted the discrepancy in the wife's alibi. I don't know where my head was."

"Really?" he asked too casually, his eyes on the file.

Juliet didn't miss it. "You have an opinion?"

"Is the Pope German?"

Sighing, she tossed her pen on the desk. "Okay, I admit it. I'm still… rattled by this business with Carlton. I guess I'm not handling it very well."

Henry peered at her over the tops of his reading glasses. "Everything okay with Collins?"

"Yeah. It's working out great."

"Uh-huh."

"No, it is. He's great. No complaints about him at all."

"Uh-huh."

She met his unwavering gaze, and crumbled. "I don't get it. I know all the things Carlton said about why this was a good thing but I can't help but feel like there's a lot more he's _not_ saying."

"Do people still use the word 'duh'?"

"Henry! Don't be Shawn."

He grinned. "Low blow, detective." He took off his glasses and sat in the chair next to her desk. "Look. It's safe to say that after all these years, you know Lassiter better than anyone else here. Probably anyone else in Santa Barbara, including his mother."

"Probably." No, she _knew_ he was right, and took a certain amount of pride in the knowledge.

"So… you're the one he has to work the hardest to hide from."

Juliet stared at him. "But… but why does he have to hide anything? I know I'm his best friend. Why can't he just _tell_ me?"

Henry's expression was wry. "He's a man, Juliet. Do the math. More importantly, he's a very private man whose last real relationship blew up because Shawn outed his affair. The last thing he's ever going to do is let Shawn—or anyone else—near even the remotest opportunity to out anything _else_ about his heart."

She was still staring at him, his meaning sinking in slowly.

"Or to put it another way," he went on, getting to his feet as he handed back the case file, "if you know him better than anyone else and _you_ can't see the problem?" He smiled gently. "Then your eyes are closed."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	2. Chapter 2: The Door

**CHAPTER TWO: The Door  
**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter noticed Henry looking at him oddly. Granted, it wasn't that unusual for Henry to look at him oddly, but this week—Week Four—he seemed to have upped the Odd Looks ante.

He couldn't think of what he might be doing to elicit this series of Odd Looks, until Tuesday afternoon, when Juliet went to the coffee bar and he glanced at her, giving her the smile he only felt comfortable giving her in this very particular setting (since she wasn't in his personal space and he felt sure she wouldn't come closer, because God forbid she should come closer—he almost had himself convinced he'd forgotten the fragrance of her hair).

(As if.)

While he was smiling at her, he felt Henry's piercing gaze somewhere in the vicinity of his ear, and turned sharply to catch him in the act. "_What__?_"

"Nothing." He returned his gaze to his laptop screen.

"Henry, either say it or stow it."

Juliet was watching them; at least his Juliet-radar indicated she was still close by.

But Henry remained mum.

It was probably about a Psych consult. So far Henry had been very obliging about keeping his son away from Lassiter's cases, and Lassiter for his part had removed himself and Grimaldi from every investigation into which the fraudulent duo might be called. Spencer Jr. seemed happy enough to stick to Juliet's caseload, though his father made a point of sharing Psych out among the other teams.

One of the real bonuses about Juliet's desk being so far from his was that it was closer to the main entrance, and Gel-head couldn't often be bothered to go the remaining distance down to Lassiter's desk to harass him, even with his father sitting nearby.

Truthfully, it was kind of nice to be so easily left behind by _some_ people.

He wondered if Henry had said something to him about staying away. Then he rolled his eyes: even if Henry had done so, no way would Shawn cooperate.

But now he wondered if Henry's Odd Looks were about his split from Juliet, and this did give him pause. Henry was just as perceptive as his offspring and a hell of a lot less intrusive about it.

Still, this was Week _Four_.

So... it was most likely about a Psych job.

All the same, it was probably time to start keeping an eye on Henry keeping an eye on _him_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet flung the pillow to the end of the bed and lay flat on her back.

_Let it go. Let it go. Let it go. Let_ him _go._

She didn't want to let it go.

And she wasn't sure she _could_ let him go.

She stared blindly at the ceiling, lit by slivers of light through the curtains.

_It's just change. Change is everywhere. Every day. All around. _

_But he cut you off. He doesn't _just_ have a new partner. He hasn't _just_ shoved you to the far end of the room. _

_He put up a frickin' wall_.

Well, the wall was there to begin with, she admitted. But over the years, and with his help, she'd carved out a nice doorway—a doorway only _she_ could pass through. A secret door to Carlton at his best, at his most relaxed, at his most accessible.

Things had changed over the last six months. Ever since he found out about her relationship with Shawn, things had been different.

But... here in the dark, alone, with no one to be fooled, she knew the changing wasn't all on his side.

She'd changed too. She could think of far too many incidents when she didn't back him up, didn't follow through, didn't act like his damned partner, let alone his friend, because she'd allowed Shawn to distract her.

Carlton had withdrawn gradually, the secret door slowly closing, and she had let it happen, and that was her mistake and her most grievous loss.

Henry's... _hinting_... was stabbing at her heart.

If Carlton's withdrawal wasn't only about the change to their partnership, and if the departmental changes weren't only about the squad, then Henry's words were more damning than anything else.

They meant she had failed Carlton in every way that mattered to her, because _he_ mattered to her.

More than she normally let herself see.

And sometimes... far too often... hell, maybe always… more than even Shawn mattered to her.

But what could she do now to make this right, or even ease it, let alone get back her secret doorway?

Or was the door closed forever?

She threw the other pillow to the floor, and covered her misty eyes with her hands.

_I'm so sorry, Carlton. I'm so sorry._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Grimaldi got in the Crown Vic and handed Lassiter his coffee. "The barista asked about you."

Lassiter frowned. "I tipped her last time."

"Yeah, I figured. She spotted the car and asked if the cop with big blue eyes was out here and how she could get you to come inside."

"Did she say this in a threatening manner? Were her eyes narrowed and was her voice like ice?"

The young man grinned. "No, sir. She seemed… friendly."

Lassiter scowled. "Trust no one, Grimaldi."

"I hear that."

"Especially people who seem friendly to _me_."

Grimaldi gave him a puzzled look. "Sir?"

Six years ago, to Juliet, he would have launched into a listing of some of "the rules" about how to suss out the motivations of suspects, emphasizing that everyone was a suspect, even someone who was only making you a cup of coffee.

Juliet would have laughed and told him he was paranoid—and he would have proudly agreed—and gently led him into admitting that maybe, just maybe, all people _weren't_ evil or out to get him and even that some people might _possibly_ only want to make him a cup of coffee. And then she would have given him that sunny smile which made him think all things were possible even when they weren't.

He turned now to the young man beside him and said wearily, "I'm sure you checked me out before you transferred over here, so yeah, everything you heard about me being a paranoid hardass is true. But I'm going to teach you how to be a good detective regardless of my personality flaws, so when the going gets tough, suck it up."

"Uh… okay." Grimaldi fidgeted a little. "Detective O'Hara…"

"What about her?" he asked sharply. Too sharply.

"Well, she's got a pretty good rep. If that's your doing, I'm bound to do okay here."

Lassiter allowed himself a small smile, mostly private. "If you have half the natural talent she brought to the table, then you will."

_But for damned sure I'll never again let anyone get as close to me as she did._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"You know what you need, Jules?"

_A vacation from you_, she thought uncharitably.

"You need a party!"

Gus agreed at once, offering to make a list of party supplies.

"No," Juliet said firmly. "I don't want a party."

"But I did such a good job with your birthday party," he reminded her smugly.

_Uh… yeah_. "I don't want a party, Shawn."

"But Jules, you've been such a Debbie Downer lately, and I'm not sure how much longer I can wait for you to climb out of the valley of Lassielessness and see the light: the light of Lassielessness!"

Juliet glared at him. "Why on earth would you think losing my partner would make me happy?"

Shawn put his feet up on his desk, grinning at her and then Gus. "Well, maybe because most of the time he's _Dennis_ Downer?"

"Shawn, Carlton and I have been friends a long time. He knows me like no one else in this town. We had a connection and I miss it. It's natural to miss it. I miss him."

A slightly miffed expression flitted across his face. "_I_ know you too, Jules."

_Really?_

"And I know Collins is a good guy and you make a good team and you'll get over Lassie as soon as you let go of the past and learn to love a good party."

Gus said, "Actually, Shawn, she's right. Cops are notorious for having really close partnerships, and losing that can be a little like a death, or a divorce."

"Thank you, Gus." She got up, restless, wishing she'd stayed home tonight.

"_No_ thank you, Gus. We're not talking about a regular person. We're talking about Lassie."

Juliet glared at him again. "Careful."

Shawn laughed. "Oh, come on. I like the guy too. But he's not exactly Mr. Warm and Fuzzy, is he? He's not even Mr. Lukewarm and Moldy. Well, maybe the moldy part, but really—hey!" He dodged the Nerf ball just in time so that it hit him in the shoulder instead of his face, which is where she'd aimed it.

"Just stop, Shawn. I mean it. You don't have to like my friends, but you do need to respect that _I _like them."

"You have other friends?" He seemed surprised.

"Again I have to agree with Juliet, Shawn. You shouldn't put her friends down. Especially when she's in mourning."

_It does feel like mourning._

"But it's Lassiter!" He got to his feet, seemingly genuinely confused that this was even being discussed. "Just go give him a hug, a farewell snowglobe, and move on! It's not like you have a choice, is it?"

Juliet sighed. Snowglobe snark aside, if only it were that easy.

But he was right about one thing: she had to do something.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She went to Carlton's condo on Saturday morning at the end of Week Four. She knew he would be home, and she knew he would let her in.

If she was wrong, and he didn't, she'd shoot out the lock with her gun and go in anyway.

But he opened the door, wearing a t-shirt and flannel pants; his black and silver hair was mussed, his so-blue eyes were wide with surprise, and he stepped back automatically to allow her entrance. "O'Hara, what is it?"

"I just need to talk to you for a little while. Is that okay? Are you busy?"

"No, I'm… it's fine."

It _wasn't_ fine; she could see it in his wary expression—his guarded, all-shields-on-high expression.

She headed for the loveseat in front of the TV, where case files were scattered on the cushions. He quickly stacked them on the coffee table to make room for her, and she half-faced him, hands in her lap, hoping she seemed calm and rational.

He said, totally unexpectedly, "You look really nice," and then blushed.

Juliet felt a little blush too, because he seldom said anything like that even when she knew damned _well_ he thought she looked nice.

He was unduly attractive himself, she thought, all not-buttoned-down and 'relaxed.' He looked warm and touchable.

Focus.

She'd chosen a light and spring-y dress, her hair was down, and she wore dangly earrings he'd once told her—somewhat self-consciously—that he liked.

She'd also used extra peach shampoo that morning, before she even knew exactly what she was doing by going to see him.

(Except that was a lie. She knew. She knew what she was doing and would not be dissuaded from it.)

He was staring at her, once again uncomfortable. "What… did you want to talk to me about?"

"Us," she said simply. "This big change between us. I wanted to tell you I finally understand a few things."

Carlton leaned back a little, presumably attempting to look _un_wary, but she knew him better than that.

"I know there's something behind your decision to do this now, and I know you aren't going to tell me what it is, and that's all right. It really is. But what I figured out… and what I need to tell you… is it's not just that I didn't want the change. It's that I didn't want to lose _you_. To lose my special relationship with you."

He was maintaining an evenly pink tone so far. She hoped she was too.

"And it _was_ special, Carlton. I've never had anything like it before. It mattered to me that _I_ was the one you _chose_ to stay partnered with. It mattered that _I _was the one who could calm you down or make you smile. That _I_ was the one you trusted more than anyone else. Those things are all important in and of themselves, but it was just as important that…" She smiled. "That it was _me_ who mattered to you. And that's what I instinctively knew I didn't want to lose."

The pink was deeper now, and he wasn't moving at all. His eyes were huge blue reflections of his uncertainty about what he was hearing.

"Everything's changed now," she went on softly. "I understand it has to, because it's what you want. I guess it's what you need. And I know we'll try—or at least I'm going to _make_ you try—to keep up over coffee and maybe dinner now and then, because yes, I intend to keep you in my life as much as the job and your stubbornness will allow. But we won't have that 24/7 bond anymore."

"No," he agreed, his tone neutral but his eyes saying he understood and regretted it too.

"You did what you had to do, for all the right reasons professionally and I assume for reasons important to you personally, and I still hope you'll tell me someday."

_I think I know, but… I can't say it _for_ you_.

Carlton nodded slowly.

"For now," she whispered, "there is one thing _I_ need from _you_. I can't explain why and it absolutely won't exist outside of this morning, right now, but… I need it."

_I think we both need it._

While he was frowning at her, she got up smoothly and straddled him on the loveseat. His hands immediately came to grasp her hips, while he breathed, "O'Hara, what are you—"

Which question she silenced with a kiss.

A six-years-in-the-making kiss.

"O'Hara," he said again, but it was weaker, and she settled her mouth over his again, more sure than a few seconds ago.

His lips were warm, and his hair was soft between her fingers. She pressed to his lean hard chest, feeling his thighs against hers, and kissed him slowly, deliberately, intensely.

He tasted good—he tasted _right_—and when he let her tongue play against his, he also moved his hands off her hips and up her sides and back, enveloping her more tightly.

Kissing him was ever so much better than imagining it (and she had, more than once over the years, and far too many times in the last week).

The feel of his tongue and teeth, and the more all-encompassing feeling of his tension—and yet acceptance of it—was perfect. His hands slid into her hair, echoing her hands' movement in his, while she traced the line of his lips with the tip of her tongue.

Carlton sighed and claimed her mouth more fully again, need growing.

_I should have kissed you a long time ago._

But he grasped her shoulders and put her away from him. "Stop," he whispered.

Juliet stroked his forehead and temples lightly, studying his deep blue eyes, trying to read everything he so desperately didn't want read.

"No," she whispered back. "This is happening today. It's for the past six years. It's for us." She leaned in again and added, "The only choice you have is whether it happens here on the sofa, or in your bed."

Carlton froze for a moment, and her heart skipped a beat at the look on his face. It was want… longing… desire… _love_. She knew it was. She felt it.

The secret door was nearly closed but she could glimpse the love, even as he tried to hide it away in the private recesses of his heart.

But he wasn't going to be able to hide this morning. Not if she could help it.

And as if he knew… he relaxed his grip on her arms and kissed her.

She felt herself melting against him; she felt him drinking her in through their kiss. She clung to him like a layer of clothing, and very soon she didn't want that between them either. Reaching down, she tugged at his t-shirt and pulled it up, exposing the lean chest she'd wondered about more than once over the years, particularly since their parking-lot scrubdown by the CDC. He was strong but not overly muscled, and her fingers loved the feeling of his chest hair—and his rapid heartbeat—while she licked his lips and let him nibble at hers.

"Off, please," she murmured, and he complied, pulling the shirt off and tossing it away before yanking her close again and reaching for the zipper of her dress. It slid down smoothly, and the dress did not resist being removed from her body.

_I don't know how I was ever blind to you. To what we could be._

Trembling, feeling a more powerful attraction and longing than she could ever remember, Juliet pressed herself to him while he unhooked her bra—no more hesitation on his part—and ran his warm hands up and down her naked back, giving her goosebumps and making her arch against his touch.

When he slid one of those hands between them to caress her breast, she shuddered with pleasure. Those fingers—those long warm gentle fingers—touching her bare flesh…

_Nobody has ever made me feel this way._

His hot mouth settled over one nipple and she moaned out loud. The sensation of his tongue rasping against her was enough to drive her mad, and he was, oh he was, and it was still so early in the game.

Between them, lower, she ground herself against him. He was aroused and she felt his heat and hardness clearly.

_I need to touch you. _

"Please," she begged—_she begged!_—"bed. Please."

Carlton wrapped his arms around her and stood somehow, half-carrying her down the hall and into his bedroom, blue-gray quiet, unmade bed awaiting. She sat on the edge and curved her fingers under the waistband of his flannel pajamas, pulling slowly and finding bare skin underneath. Warm, tempting skin.

He breathed slowly, hands coming to rest on her shoulders as she sampled the taste of him, stroking his thighs and sliding her hands up his stomach, feeling the delicious heat and hearing him sigh as she explored.

But before too long he was urging her to lie back, joining her there and removing her panties with maddening slowness as he kissed a path from her shoulders to her most sensitive, heated place. She was already quivering beneath his tender touches, thinking again _but this has only just begun_….

What she was doing was either the smartest or most selfish act of her life.

All she knew for sure was that if he was going to be separate from her, on the other side of that bricked-up door, she was taking this memory with her, and leaving one with him.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He remembered her whispering that she'd be gone when he woke up, and it was true.

She was gone, but he could smell her on his pillow, on his skin. Peach silk heat.

It was just past two, and she must have been very quiet indeed, to get out of bed and dressed and out the door without waking him.

But then again, he hadn't slept much in a month, and making love with her all morning—in nearly wordless wonder—had worn him out.

He still felt her against his body.

He could hear her sighs and feel her trembling underneath him as he touched her, caressed her, loved her. He could see the look in her glorious dark blue eyes as he claimed her fully, felt her enveloping him, arms and legs and heat and heart and body and soul.

The sensation of her heart pounding—of his heart pounding along with hers—was like hearing the ocean, relentless and steady and serene and powerful.

He knew there were times when it was necessary to simply _accept_ something, not analyze it, not wonder about it, not expect or fear or long for more.

He'd never been particularly good at just accepting anything.

But this… this he would try to accept.

For her, he would try. He understood what she'd been trying to say: this was a form of closure, wasn't it? A way to mark what _was_—what could have been, or maybe what _never_ could have been—and use it as a starting point to move on.

He could cynically believe Juliet's actions were motivated by pity, but he knew her well enough—knew she cared about him—to know it was anything but pity. They'd been too close for too long. He knew she _liked_ him, even though he didn't really understand why.

He would take her at her word: she needed this. And it was for _them_.

Now she was back to her life with Shawn, and he would go back to trying to get over her.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 3: Cracks

**CHAPTER THREE: Cracks**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_And so._

On Monday afternoon Juliet was at the courthouse, waiting to be called to testify. She'd just exchanged texts with Shawn agreeing to meet for dinner, and it struck her as very strange that she could now be called "unfaithful."

It was neither a term she ever expected would apply to her, nor a course of action she would ever have imagined taking.

She could produce a litany of justifications as to why it hadn't been "ordinary" cheating to spend Saturday morning making love with Carlton—because it was Carlton, because it was about their deep and private connection, _because it was Carlton_—but to the naked eye, and certainly to Shawn's eye if he found out, she had cheated, and it didn't matter that it was a one-time thing.

The more serious problem in her mind had to do with guilt.

Namely, feeling none.

_None._

What was _wrong_ with her?

Nothing, maybe, because it really _wasn't_ "ordinary" cheating.

She wondered how Carlton was feeling about it. They had only exchanged hellos this morning at the station, and not much eye contact, but he and Grimaldi were called out and now she was at the courthouse. There hadn't been enough time to judge whether he felt guilty or freaked, but somehow… somehow, despite his basic nature, she suspected he was feeling neither of those things. She suspected he was feeling what she was feeling: a sense of this having been necessary and important and unforgettable.

Her admittedly inadequate plan now was to act as if nothing had happened, go on with her life, and come to terms with both having cheated on her boyfriend and also not regretting it.

Shawn. Dammit.

Carlton. Damn it _all_.

_Carlton_… she leaned back against the cool marble wall and closed her eyes briefly. _It should have been us, and now it's too late. I'm so sorry, and you were so amazing and wonderful on Saturday, and I wish I could tell you this. I wish I could change so many things but what's been set in motion isn't that easy to point in another direction. _

_You knew that, which is why you withdrew._

_And I wasn't paying attention—which is why it's too late now._

_I'm an idiot. _

_A mindless, drooling, without-you idiot._

_I miss you._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

It wasn't so bad, Lassiter decided.

Well, it was bad. But it wasn't _as_ bad.

They were still separate, she was still never going to be his, but somehow, the unbelievably incredible morning they had shared was taking the edge off the pain.

Maybe it was because having shared that intimate, perfect encounter, he understood now that he really did matter to her in a way he hadn't thought was possible until it actually happened.

It was still all for naught, but it was better.

He still smiled at her when she came to the coffee bar and it was still hopeless, but it was _better_.

On the other hand, Henry was giving him Odd Looks again.

One afternoon—late in Week Six—Lassiter had enough. Juliet had just been at the coffee bar, had come close enough to compliment his tie and incidentally drop off a casefile, and he could no longer deny that Henry's Odd Looks always followed a Juliet-sighting.

He stood up abruptly. "Henry. A word." He headed for the conference room, and Henry followed somewhat warily.

When Lassiter locked the door, Henry was momentarily surprised. But he knew how to rally; he put his hands on his hips and waited.

Lassiter got to the point. "What. Is. It."

Henry pretended innocence. "What's what?"

"No games, Spencer. Leave that to your son. You've been giving me the stinkeye for weeks and I'm tired of it."

"I haven't been giving you any stinkeye. Stinkeyes are for people you're pissed off at."

"Fine, then; you've been flat-out staring, and one thing I know about you is you're not shy when it comes to speaking your mind. So _speak_ it already."

Henry hesitated.

"Before we die of old age," Lassiter snapped.

"It's nothing. None of my business. None of my concern."

He couldn't help it; he advanced on Henry out of pure irritation.

Henry flinched but recovered swiftly, holding up one hand and saying, "Look. It's nothing. I'm merely curious about things that aren't my business."

"What." Pause. "Things."

_Now_, the man was blunt: "You and Juliet. Your partnership. How things are going. Why you upset the apple cart."

Lassiter felt his jaw clenching. "Doing my job, looking out for the interests of the department, is not upsetting the apple cart."

"Right. So why has she been walking around looking like her best friend died?"

While Lassiter was glaring at him, his heart twinging and his mind racing for an appropriate answer, Henry spoke again.

"For that matter, why have _you_?"

Ah, hell.

He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. "It was a big change for both of us."

"Yeah. I get that. I _don't_ get why changing partners also means not being friends anymore."

"We're still friends."

Henry shook his head. "Then maybe you need to do something for your _friend_, Detective, because that young lady is very unhappy."

_Sure, knife me in the gut._

_And you're wrong._

_It's better now. It _is_. Ever since… it's better._

Henry watched him for a moment. "Same as you are."

"It'll pass," he ground out, _and it's none of your damned business_.

"Right. Whatever you say." Henry reached for the doorknob, but Lassiter got around him fast enough to stop him from opening it.

"If you think it was ever my intention to hurt O'Hara, you're wrong."

Henry relaxed, because now he was sure of himself. Lassiter kind of hated him for that. "I know. But you did. Now _fix_ it."

"I can't fix it. It's done."

"It's not done as long as she's walking wounded."

"You're imagining things," he insisted. "We worked it out." Yeah… in a manner of speaking. "It's okay now. We just need time for everything to settle into place."

Again, Henry shook his head. "You know how it goes, Lassiter. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. You had a great partnership with Juliet and you gave it up for reasons that don't make any sense to anyone outside of your head."

"They made enough sense to Vick for her to approve it. And what do you want me to do now? Turn the rookie loose and tell Collins too bad, you don't get a partner, because _Henry Spencer_ thinks O'Hara has to work with me, and we all know you don't cross Henry?"

"You may all know it, but you all sure cross me just the same," Henry said dryly. "I'm just saying there's got to be something you can do to repair your relationship. To put a smile back on her face. Or in her heart," he added meaningfully.

_Don't you _dare _go there._

"She's got your son for that." He let go of the door, but Henry didn't move to open it.

In fact, he laughed—scoffed? "Hey, I love my boy. He's pretty remarkable when he wants to be. But man to man? He's screwed up a lot of relationships and I don't expect this one will be any different. And even if he somehow gets it exactly right this time, Juliet still needs something from you she's never going to get from him."

Lassiter was suddenly tired. So tired. "And what's that?"

"You."

Henry opened the door and walked out, and Lassiter shoved his hand through his hair, trying to remember a time when there _hadn't_ been a Spencer around to screw with his head.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"I spy, with my little eye, something that starts with ears."

Gus protested, "That's not how to play the game, Shawn."

Shawn pointed across the room at Carlton, and Juliet wanted to slap his hand. "But I spy them."

"Stop it," she said, sinking into her chair. "Why are you guys here?"

"To drum up work, of course."

Collins looked up from his PC. "Even though we don't have any for you?"

"There's always work for us. Some little forgotten unsolved case tucked into the back corner of a dusty desk in a dark room in the basement. Ooh, I'd like to get my hands on a cold case. I mean a really cold one. Like from fifty years ago. I want to be like those guys on... what's that show... oh yeah, _Cold Case_. Not the most imaginative name, but I guess it gets the point across."

Gus reflected. "I could be a younger, hipper version of Will Jeffries. He's cool."

Juliet couldn't resist. "Then Shawn would have to be Nick Vera."

He looked wounded. "I think I'm a lot more like Scotty Valens, thank you."

Collins laughed out loud. "Yeah. In your dreams. Anyway, thanks for your help last week on the Malone case but everything we have right now is psychic-free."

"And you're supposed to get your case assignments through Henry," Juliet reminded him.

Shawn was playing with two rubber bands from her desk. "You'd still date me if I was Nick Vera, wouldn't you?"

"Nick Vera was a great character," she said with a smile.

Shawn studied her suspiciously. "But would you go out with him if he asked you?"

"No, because I'm dating you." _Yeah, _now_ I'm honorable._

"Jules," he protested.

"Shawn," she mocked. "Please go away."

"Okay, fine. We'll go bug my dad. Maybe Lassie won't run off this time."

She felt herself tensing. Shawn had mentioned in recent weeks that every time he headed toward Henry's desk, Carlton found a reason to be elsewhere. (She was glad, because she didn't want Shawn needling him about even so much as the weather.)

"If I were you, I'd take it personally," she said lightly.

"Oh, I can't take anything personally from Lassie. He's an android. He probably just has to go get his microchips adjusted more now that you're not there to supervise him."

"Stop it."

He looked at her directly. "Stop what?"

"She wants you to stop insulting Lassiter," Gus explained patiently.

"Who's insulting him? He's a cold fish. That's just a fact."

_Carlton is cold like you're anorexic._

It was Collins who intervened with a smooth, "Careful, Shawn. A frozen trout upside the head could kill a man."

Shawn grinned. "Make a note, Gus. When I write my novel, we can use that as a subplot. We'll call the murderer... Barton Bassiter."

"What's this 'my' novel but 'we' can use that? Do you think I'm going to type it all up for you and let you give tiny-print credit to Bruton Gaster?"

"That _so_ wouldn't happen... again... and anyway we're talking about my fish-murderer. He's a tall, gangly, big-eared, hook-nosed—"

Juliet stood and snapped, "Shut up. And get out."

All three men turned to her, and she had the sensation that Collins was on her side.

"Now."

"Move along, guys," Collins said firmly. "And for future reference, this is a no-fly zone when it comes to insulting anyone's partners, present or former. Got it?"

Shawn looked at Collins as if he'd never seen him before, and Juliet realized he probably hadn't. He was startlingly perceptive about people whose business he should stay out of, and stunningly oblivious about people closest to him. Not that he and Collins were close, but he clearly had never perceived him as a threat before.

Threat as in _not always applauding every word out of your mouth_.

"Hmmph." Shawn got up, putting the rubber bands back on Juliet's desk. He moved closer to her, as if he were going to kiss her, but as much as she normally resisted displays of affection from him in her workplace, today she resisted it even more.

She took a full two steps back, and Shawn, oblivious Shawn, _did_ notice that.

"So," he said slowly, while Gus looked on very curiously. "I'll call you later about dinner?"

_I don't want to have dinner with you._

Then she thought, _wow, I really _don't_ want to have dinner with you_.

"I'm probably working late," she lied.

_First you cheat, now you lie…_

"I'll call you anyway."

_Because even if I were telling the truth, it's not like it should affect _your_ plans, right?_

"Okay." She turned away, to the filing cabinet behind her desk, and didn't watch them leave. Didn't really have to; she could hear Shawn calling out to his father and then to Carlton. She couldn't make out Carlton's response, but when she glanced over her shoulder, he was striding away like always.

"No offense," Collins began mildly.

She reclaimed her chair, feeling exhausted. "But?"

"But your boyfriend's kind of a jerk."

Juliet sighed. "Yeah. Sometimes." _Most times, lately_. "Thanks for backing me up about Carlton."

"No problem. Partnerships are..." He hesitated, seeming embarrassed. "Well, they're kind of sacred. I mean, like his with Guster. If you were always giving _him_ a verbal smackdown, bet Shawn wouldn't put up with it too long, would he?"

"No. But the rules don't apply to Shawn."

"Huh. Well. I hope..." He cleared his throat, embarrassed again. "I hope you're... happy. This job is hard enough without having support after hours."

_Happy._

There was a thought.

She only mumbled _thanks_, and tried to get back to work.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Sunday afternoon, end of Week Eight.

Having refused an offer from Shawn to go with him and Gus to see a movie (lately she found herself saying no to a lot of outings), Juliet felt like watching some Clint Eastwood. She only owned two of his movies—_Unforgiven_ and _Any Which Way But Loose_—and wasn't even going to try to pretend she wasn't thinking about Carlton right now.

_Unforgiven_ would be appropriately depressing enough to fit her mood.

But the DVD wasn't in its place—neither one was—and the closer she looked, the more it became apparent that the simple alphabetical-by-title arrangement on the four-shelf DVD stand had been totally shot to hell.

_Shawn._

The movies seemed to be arranged now by decade… subdivided by director. It must have taken him several hours to do it, hours she couldn't imagine him spending essentially sitting still, let alone in her place without her knowledge, unless he'd gotten up during one of the increasingly few nights they spent together. It was very complex, incredibly annoying, and totally arrogant.

It infuriated her, truth be told, no matter how ridiculous it was to feel this angry about something so inconsequential.

_Except they're _my_ DVDs. _Mine_. On _my_ stand, in _my_ place. MINE. He had no right to mess with MY inconsequential preferences. _

_I matter too, don't I?_

She began pulling the movies off haphazardly, determined to re-sort them, but the next thing she knew, she was crying, surrounded by scattered DVDs and facing empty shelves, and this was really ridiculous, really, _really_ ridiculous.

Which is when Shawn let himself in.

"Jules, what the hell? Are you okay? Did someone break in?"

A curiously cold part of her brain answered quietly: _You're _the hell_. I'm _not_ okay. And yeah: _you_ did._

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, wiping tears from her face.

He knelt by her side, genuinely concerned. "I came to take you to the movies."

"I told you I didn't want to go!"

"You were serious?"

She had no words that wouldn't be profanity. "Do you always let yourself in without knocking? Do you spend a lot of time here when I'm not home, rearranging my DVDs and whatever the hell else you can screw around with?"

"Jules," he began, nervous now, trying to scramble to his feet and losing his balance on the sliding DVDs. He fell back to the sofa.

Juliet got up, fists clenched at her side. "Let me guess. My CDs are now arranged by the length of their liner notes. My spices, by country of origin. You retitled all the songs on my iPod to the names of cast members of 80s sitcoms, and—and—and God only knows what you did with my underwear!"

"Jules," he said more firmly, sitting up straight. "You're losing it."

"When do you listen to me, Shawn? When do you _ever_ listen to me?"

"I'm listening now." He stood carefully, hands up, looking very much as if he were dealing with a wingnut, which he essentially was.

"I want my key back."

"Your... but... Jules?"

"And the copy I know you made."

"Hang on. What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I don't want you over here when I'm not home and I want my key back. I only gave it to you because you said you'd water my plants and pick up my mail when I went home last spring."

"But I'm your boyfriend."

She ignored that. "Of course, three of the plants died and you threw away the mail, so really, boneheaded move on my part."

"I didn't know the mail was important!"

"Bills, Shawn? You didn't know bills were important?"

"I thought you paid them all online!"

Hopeless.

"Shawn, just... just give me my key right now and please leave. If you have any sense at all you can see I'm in a rotten mood, and nothing—I mean _nothing_—is going to work out for you if you're still here in two minutes." She held out her hand.

Shawn hesitated, but did slowly pull the key off his keyring. "Jules. Look. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about the DVDs. And the mail. And the underwear. But I'm still your guy, and I want to be here for you when you need me." He gave her the key, and added carefully, "It looks like you need me now."

She wished he was right.

She wished he _was_ the one she needed.

"I'll call you later," she said levelly.

Maybe.

Probably not.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter's phone rang and he answered without looking to see who it was, so when her voice sounded in his ear, his heart nearly jumped out of his chest. "Hey," he managed.

"I... you're going to think this is crazy, but I need a favor. I need... God, I need some fried ice cream and a big-ass margarita. Would you meet me at El Cielo?"

One voice suggested he say _no_ politely; fifteen other voices said _buddy don't be a moron_. "Now?"

"If you can. I know it's short notice. Are you busy?"

Did watching a fishing show count as busy? "Not in the least. I'll meet you there in fifteen."

_Because they were still _friends_. That's all_.

Didn't explain why he put on a blue shirt she liked, leaving the top button undone, did it?

_Oh shut up_, he told all the voices.

Juliet was leaning against her Beetle in the sunshine and she looked tired until she saw him, and then a smile lit her face and her lovely dark blue eyes and he was hard-pressed not to crumple at her feet.

"Thanks for meeting me," she said, and made it seem so simple to be with her again.

They hadn't talked at all since... he never knew how to phrase it in his mind. Since she'd given herself to him. Since she'd made love to him. Since _That Day_. They'd smiled at each other, said _hey how ya doing_ in passing, _here's the file_, _the coffee doesn't suck today_, but nothing more.

But walking into the restaurant, and waiting for the hostess to seat them in the half-empty place, she chattered as if everything was normal, and he was willing to let this play out except for two things: one, it _wasn't_ normal, and two, she was upset about something. Some_one_.

Ice cream and margaritas ordered, he watched her sink back against the padding of the booth and relax.

"What's up?" he asked. "You didn't need me to justify having ice cream."

She blinked, and then smiled. "It's like drinking. If you do it alone, people think you're pathetic."

_Then they must think I'm beyond pathetic._

Still, he couldn't help but smile back. "Maybe, but even if I couldn't see for myself that something's bothering you, ice cream and margaritas are an especially deadly duo."

"True. I could get drunk _and_ bloated."

Laughing at something so simple was the most amazing feeling: and he missed, with sudden sharp clarity, how often she'd been able to get him to laugh in the past when they were alone and relaxed somewhere like this, being _themselves_.

"It was just a bad day," she explained. "Maybe I'm a poster child for PMS. Everything irritating has been magnified eight hundred percent."

Lassiter grinned. "And yet you called _me_?"

"Stop," she laughed. "Yes, I called you. I needed someone to remind me that people do behave rationally and considerately and don't make me feel like I'm losing my mind."

"And yet you called _me_." He raised one eyebrow, enjoying her amusement far too much. "Sure you didn't start drinking before you left home?"

Juliet was clearly feeling much better, and honestly so was he.

He didn't want to ask what Spencer had done. He didn't want to mention his name, to spoil the mood. He wanted to just _be_ with her and pretend.

She must have wanted the same thing, because the two of them ate fried ice cream and drank margaritas and filled each other in on their cases and their new partners—no comparisons, only observations.

Spencer's name was never mentioned. Psych was never mentioned. Their private morning a month ago was never mentioned.

It was there, he thought; a swirling undercurrent. An awareness.

_You don't see the woman you love naked and forget it. You don't feel her mouth on your skin and put that aside. You don't make her cry out your name in ecstasy and file it away with a weather report or a news clipping about a mime being mugged. You don't remember her fingertips trailing along your body and..._

Lassiter jerked himself back to attention.

Juliet was smiling at him, and her second very large margarita was empty. "Probably should have had more than booze and ice cream," she said somewhat dreamily. "Been a long time since breakfast."

It was nearly six. Focus. "I'll drive you home."

"You had two margaritas too," she pointed out. "You can't be soberer..erer than I am."

"I'm Irish. We know how to hold our liquor."

"I'm Scottish," she countered. "We know how to hold our liquor _and_ we look good in skirts. Kilts, I mean..." She dissolved into giggles.

Lassiter found her irresistible. "Nonetheless, I'm in better shape than you are. Come on." The waiter had brought the check a few minutes earlier, so he reached for his wallet to take care of it.

"No! No, no, I asked you out here. I'm buying." She fumbled for her shoulderbag.

"You're not competent to make change right now, O'Hara." He put the money down, plus tip, and got to his feet, offering her his hand to help her up out of the booth.

She stumbled against him—all peach-scented heady closeness—and giggled a little, but managed to exit the restaurant in an upright position. In his car, she more or less lolled in the seat, laughing softly to herself about who knew what, and only addressed him directly one time: "What about my car?"

"Give me your keys and I'll make sure it gets back to your place. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not worried," she half-sang. "Carlton's here." Dreamy again, she added more to the window than him, "I never have to worry when you're here."

_I wish I could always be there._

At her apartment, he guided her up the stairs, separated her car key from her house key and watched her unlock and push open the door. "Lock up," he told her. "Don't forget."

"I won't." She turned to face him, smiling the smile of a gently drunk person who probably _would_ remember her words the next day but was just inebriated enough to say them anyway. "God, I miss you, Carlton. Thank you so much for today. I needed you so much."

While he was staring at her, heart constricting, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the mouth, and there was no way he could not kiss her back. No freaking way.

Her arms slid around his neck and the kiss deepened and he was helpless, because he loved her, and she tasted of lime and salt and passion _and he loved her_.

But even though his mouth did not want to leave hers, and his body did not want any air between them, and her tongue against his was the very most addictive of sensations, she was still drunk and he did actually possess a conscience.

What happened a month ago was in a class by itself. _This_ would be a mistake.

A sweet, erotic, no doubt mind-blowing mistake, but still a mistake.

So he kissed her lush mouth one last time and grasped her arms, pulling himself free of her carefully. "Go on, Juliet," he murmured. "Get some sleep. Your car will be here in the morning."

She didn't resist.

But she did say, soft and low, more of a mumble really, "I'd rather have _you_ here in the morning."

Maybe he'd misheard her… probably he had…

Fortunately, the door closed before he could work up the nerve to ask her to repeat it.

_Fortunately_, because if he _had_ heard her correctly, he wouldn't be leaving right now, conscience be damned.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	4. Chapter 4: Splintering

**CHAPTER FOUR: Splintering**

**. . . .**

**. . . **

Juliet woke very early, before five a.m. Her head was slightly muzzy but she was coming out of a dream, or a memory, of kissing Carlton, so her mood had a decidedly mellow tinge to it.

Oh, wait… no, it was a _memory_.

Kissing him right out there on her doorstep.

Mmmm… an extremely _nice_ memory.

She didn't normally get tipsy so fast but two gigantor margaritas on essentially an empty stomach after an upsetting afternoon… yeah, that'd make for poor judgment.

But once again, "unfaithful" moniker aside, she still felt no guilt, because it still didn't feel like cheating.

Mostly it felt like heaven.

But Carlton must think she was awful, leading him on, toying with him—_you know, unfaithful_.

Hmmm… Juliet smiled. The way he'd kissed her back—God, he was a fantastically good kisser—said he wasn't thinking bad things about her at all, even if he did stop her from going further.

She wasn't even embarrassed about what she said, because she remembered that very well too.

Fully awake now, she got up and peered out the window; as promised, her Beetle was parked out front. She padded into the living room and immediately spotted an envelope on the table by the door. Inside, the car key, and a note: _I still had the house key you gave me for emergencies. Let me know if you want Collins to have it now. Hope your head's okay in the morning —Carlton._

Irony. She'd demanded a key back from Shawn, and suddenly she wanted Carlton to keep the one he had.

_I wish he'd come further in to the apartment. I wished I'd sensed him here._

She had gone straight to bed, ignoring the phone and its multiple messages from Shawn, and obviously slept through Carlton's quiet arrival and departure; she never even heard the Bug's distinctive motor in the parking lot.

_I'm going to have to do something about Shawn._

One idea came to mind immediately. She showered and dressed, went to the nearest all-night store with extensive hardware supplies, and came back to install new locks. There was no way Shawn hadn't made a copy of the key she'd given him last year; she knew it. She knew _him_, and in her current frame of mind, preventing (or at least slowing down) his access to her space was paramount.

Yeah, he was her boyfriend, but this was… war.

She had an extra key made, and when she got to the station, headed straight for Carlton's desk. He looked up, sea-blue eyes revealing nothing, and she was glad Henry wasn't in yet.

"Hi," he said cautiously. "How are you?"

Juliet gave him a smile. "I'm okay. Thanks. Thanks for the car delivery too—and take this, please."

He took the key she offered, frowning. "What's this for?"

"I changed the locks on my place this morning. You can get rid of the old key."

Carlton blinked, puzzled. "Was there a problem with your locks?"

There was, but she didn't want to say his name. "I was… in a mood. Carried over from yesterday."

"Okay," he said slowly. "You don't want to give this to Collins instead? Or maybe Vick?"

Juliet didn't hesitate: "_They_ wouldn't be the first ones I'd call." She smiled again, noting the hint of a return smile in the deep blue, and left him to his work.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Listening to "please hold" music in one ear, Lassiter turned the key over in his hand again and again, trying to balance his current feelings against his original grand plan to separate himself from Juliet.

It had been two months now, and in the last month alone, they'd had spectacular sex, kissed with considerable passion on her doorstep, and she'd just given him a new key to her place, implying she'd changed the locks because of Spencer.

How in the hell did that relate to separating?

"Separation means _separate_," Victoria had once written in a terse note, leading to a rather satisfying session in the shooting range (despite having to clean up shards of porcelain afterwards).

Juliet was still with Spencer, so far as he knew. Spencer still had the damned ring in his possession, so far as he knew. She might still marry the guy, so far as he knew, and by God, so far as he knew, Lassiter was still going to live the rest of his life without her.

She was going through a phase, he told himself. She was _adjusting_. That and the margaritas combined to leave _him_ confused—not unhappy per se, but confused.

Last night, he drove back to El Cielo to collect her Beetle, and called for a patrol car to meet him at Juliet's place. The lights were out, but he tapped on the door anyway, and after a minute, figured she'd sensibly gone to bed.

Using the "emergency" key, he went in, and honestly, _honestly_ his sole intention was to deposit the car key and leave again. But once inside, he hesitated.

In the dimness, in the quiet, he was overwhelmed by… her.

The idea of being with her. Coming home to her.

His feet carried him quietly to her bedroom door, which stood open. There was still enough early-evening light through the window to illuminate her form in the bed, honey-gold hair across the pillow, one slender leg visible.

She was so beautiful, and he'd have given anything for the right to lie beside her, but he didn't have it. Spencer did.

Lock-changing and slightly drunken doorstep-kissing-incidents aside, he just couldn't see that it wouldn't always be Spencer with that right.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet went beachside to eat her lunch, her head too full of … everything … to sit inside the station or even go home. She needed the wide blue ocean in front of her to help calm those babbling internal voices.

After savory chicken salad, chopped fresh tomatoes and cucumber, and a tall icy drink (with none of the oomph of yesterday's margaritas), she felt a lot more settled. The voices were still jabbering at her, but they were muted.

Shawn sat down beside her wearing his most resolute doubt-me-not expression. "Here," he said, and handed her a key.

A theme for the day. "The copy you made." _Of a key I gave you in good faith, because I _trusted_ you_.

"Yeah. I… I just thought it'd be good to have one in case I lost the original, but… yeah, I should have asked first. I'm sorry."

Juliet studied him. He was very good at hiding, well, everything, and it was entirely possible he'd made other copies. But she had a few tricks, too. "So when I go home tonight, I'm not going to see any damage to the new locks from when you tried to get in this morning after I left for work?"

Shawn stared, obviously trying to seem confused rather than surprised. He chose wounded dignity. "That's kind of a hurtful thing to say, Jules."

She nodded. "Yeah. I guess it is. Or it would be, if I didn't have video footage of your attempts."

Her brothers, when they taught her to play poker, had emphasized the importance of a good bluff. _Thanks, guys; I owe you_.

He was silent, watching her; and she knew damned well she wasn't giving anything away. Finally he sighed. "I was just going to put your CDs back in order the way you wanted them. I figured you were mad enough about the DVDs that I'd better try to make the CDs right. That's all I was going to do, I swear."

"I see. But… was it really about making things right, or was it maybe more about covering your tracks?"

"Jules, come on."

"No, Shawn. Remember me asking you yesterday if you _ever_ listened to me? Remember me telling you I wanted my key and for you _not_ to come over when I'm not there? Remember how angry I was?"

"Yeah, but I was just… look, I'm one of the good guys. Do _you_ remember _that_?"

Hmm, a touch of defiance there. "Yes, actually, I do. But you're… I don't know, Shawn. There's a little bit of bad guy in you too."

He half-grinned. "I thought women liked bad boys."

"I said bad _guy_. That means the kind of guy who continually disrespects the wishes of the people he claims to care about."

Now he really was wounded. "It's not a claim, Jules. I care. You know how I feel about you."

"I do." She felt a rush of affection, despite everything, and reached out to clasp his hand. "I don't question your feelings for me."

His voice was low: "But."

"But… I don't think I can do this anymore."

_There_. Said.

And honestly it had nothing to do with Carlton.

He turned to her at once, taking her other hand. "Jules, wait. Look. Give me a chance. I can do this. I can learn."

Such a profound sigh escaped. "Haven't you made promises like that to Gus and your father for years?"

"Well, yeah," he admitted, "but I never thought I'd have to make that kind of promise to you."

"What? Why?"

"Because I never thought I'd screw up with you the same way I do with them. I thought I'd be better with you. Smarter. Less of an ass."

It was almost amusing. "Shawn…"

"No, I mean it. You have to give me a chance. At least one. I can be trained. I can do anything I set my mind to, you know I can, and I set my mind to you." He squeezed her hands, looking unbelievably earnest and hopeful. "I set my heart on you."

In response, _her_ heart twisted a little.

He went on urgently, "One chance. That's all I ask. We worked too hard to get together, Jules. It shouldn't be so easy to tear us apart."

Seagulls screeched, and the waves rushed to shore, and Juliet's head and heart did battle: common sense against emotion, experience against hope. Reality against optimism.

"Okay," she sighed. "One more chance."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The instant the words flew out of her mouth, she wanted to yank them back.

But Shawn's face had lit up like it was Christmas morning and he swooped in to kiss her, then jumped up and started victory-dancing, and it was impossible, beyond impossible, to tell him _wait no I changed my mind, because it doesn't matter how hard you try, it doesn't even matter if you _succeed_: you're just not Carlton_.

She couldn't say that to him.

No one with a heart could say that.

Which is why she sat in her rocking chair well past midnight, brushing tears off her face, regretting a situation she had created all by herself simply by saying "okay."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_You have to stop thinking in numeric terms._

End of Week Twelve.

Lassiter and Grimaldi were prowling around an empty warehouse, looking for evidence left behind by a small drug-dealing operation. Other officers were carefully swarming the place as well, and he was glad, because this was certainly not _his_ best attention-to-detail day.

It had been a month since The Margarita Incident. He and Juliet hadn't talked at length again, and there were no "I need a favor" calls. They had coffee a few times, either standing by the bar discussing nothing, or meeting up by chance at the Starbucks closest to the station and taking a few minutes to discuss… nothing.

At work, but only when Henry wasn't there, he watched her from afar. She seemed… quiet. Almost like she were waiting. It was an odd sensation, yet that's how it seemed: she was biding her time. For what?

Spencer was around regularly with Guster, but he only messed with Lassiter when Henry called them over to his desk, or when he was exceptionally bored. But since Lassiter had perfected the get-away-from-him-ASAP move, they didn't interact much.

He'd educated Grimaldi about them. Guster was okay, he explained, basically a good guy who generally wanted to do the right thing, but he was easily led by Spencer down far too many rabbit holes. Spencer, for his part, was smart but lazy, loved attention and food to the exclusion of pretty much everything else, and Grimaldi would do well to change his passwords regularly to forestall Spencer's inevitable snooping and "pranks."

Grimaldi had said, "That's illegal. We can arrest him."

Lassiter had responded wearily, "_You_ try."

This morning, striding down the hall toward Interrogation carrying a cup of coffee, he'd been T-boned by Juliet coming around the corner rapidly; her head was down and her attention clearly elsewhere, and that's how he ended up with coffee all over his shirt, but the stain—not to mention the considerable sting from the heat of it through the fabric—fell into sensory background once she began anxiously trying to clean him up.

She yanked him into the ladies' room, which thank God was empty, and started blotting at him with wet paper towels. He kept telling her it was all right and never mind and he had a fresh shirt in the car but the words fell away along with the rest of it when she looked up at him, her hands on his chest… _her hands on his chest_… her palms flat against him and somehow hotter than the coffee, and she could surely feel his heart racing.

Her eyes were wide—dark blue pools of something utterly irresistible—and she sighed, her lips parted slightly, and he lost it. He kissed her.

He grasped her arms and pulled her close and kissed her, and there was no doubt in his addled brain about her response: immediately reciprocated desire.

He'd been wrong about a few things in his life and wrong about a _lot_ of things where women were concerned, but as a man he knew full well that this woman wanted _him_.

Maybe it was only right this minute, but she wanted _him_ and accepted that he wanted her.

Tugging her tighter against his body was easy because she was already pressed to him; her arms were around his neck and she was pulling him closer, kissing him harder and more deeply, as if both their lives depended on this most intense kiss ever in the history of kisses.

Doomed kisses, even.

Lassiter could hardly breathe, and her gasps against his mouth—not that she was pulling back—showed him she was in the same state.

He couldn't help but pull her hair free from its restraints, couldn't help but stroke her golden peach-scented hair as it tumbled down to her shoulders. Damn, he wanted her. Never before had he wanted any woman—or even any _thing_—as much as he wanted her.

Right now… and forever.

Outside the door, voices; a conversation between two women, one of whom was about to come in.

They jerked apart, fast and far. Juliet didn't bother with her hair; she knew enough to resume the blotting of coffee from his shirt as if nothing else had been going on, and when DiNardi from Fingerprinting came in, all there was to see was perfectly innocent.

"Sorry," Juliet said brightly. "I dragged him in here against his will." She gestured to his stained shirt. "Tried to run him down."

"Friendly fire," he managed. "I think we can give up on this. Um, excuse me." He snatched up the empty cup and brushed past the still-uncertain DiNardi, and in the hours since had not once felt that his heart had gotten back to a normal rhythm.

_Stupid._

_You were doing so well._

_Okay, you still suck at this getting-over-Juliet thing._

_But now you're back to the earlier, higher levels of suckage. _

_Because you suck._

_And she's not yours. NOT YOURS. _

_BECAUSE YOU SUCK._

The inner haranguing only stopped when Grimaldi called him over to look at some smudges near a light switch inside a closet, and he almost wanted to shake the rookie's hand for the unintended favor.

With grim determination, he made himself concentrate on his job, and training Grimaldi, and the voice left him alone for now.

He held out zero hope that it would _stay_ quiet.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_Oh my God. _

_Oh my God._

Juliet was in her car, trembling.

Never in her life, ever, ever, had she experienced anything like that.

They might as well have been naked and making love, not fully dressed and standing in the ladies' room. The sheer intensity of the kiss shocked her even now, hours later, when she was supposed to be picking up lunch for herself and Collins.

She'd volunteered to go because she couldn't stay at her desk one more minute without some kind of breakdown, and here, in her Beetle, within sight of the ocean, she was breaking down.

But she felt entitled: the past month had been very unsettling.

Her promise to give Shawn a chance meant she'd had to force herself to stop thinking about Carlton, a promise she was two-thirds good at keeping when she was awake and an utter failure at keeping when she was asleep, because he persistently invaded her dreams.

Shawn had been making a valiant effort to try not to be… Shawn. He usually asked her what she wanted to do, for one thing, instead of assuming she always agreed with his preference. They even watched a few movies of _her_ choice, and dined in places _she_ wanted to try.

(However, she would not go to El Cielo with him. That was a memory she didn't want sullied.)

Like most men, however, he wanted accolades for these efforts, not understanding (like most men) that accolades shouldn't have to be given for the normal actions of mature adults in a supposedly committed relationship.

The truth was, she was tired of the _trying_, and she knew he was tiring, too—and it had only been a month.

He still hadn't quit making remarks about Carlton. It was too ingrained in him. It was as if, not being able to get a rise out of Collins at crime scenes, he fell back to an old target, even when the target wasn't there. Most other crime scene personnel knew Carlton at least by reputation, so Shawn could be assured of a laugh or even a grin in reaction to whatever needless snark he made in his absence.

Juliet asked him numerous times to stop, and he would… _that_ day. At _that_ crime scene. But at the next crime scene, he'd rev it up again.

She didn't want to _truly_ confront him on the issue, though. She was desperately afraid that if she started yelling at him about Carlton, she would say too much. He'd see the truth. He'd see her feelings for Carlton went beyond partner and friend.

Her balance on the highwire of her emotions was already precarious. She had to get a grip.

She'd foolishly hoped that grip was strengthening—or at least not weakening further—until this morning.

Her hands flat on his chest. His heart pounding under her touch. His expressive eyes the most mesmerizing shade of ocean blue. When he kissed her, she was immediately—_immediately_—sucked into a whirlpool of desire from which escape was not only impossible but also a completely ridiculous idea: why would she _want_ to leave his embrace? Why?

He was all fire. Searing heat between them. White hot.

Even now she wanted him… needed him. Loved him.

Juliet rested her head against the cool window of the Beetle.

_You stupid woman. You're supposed to love your boyfriend._

_But I… do. I guess I do. I must._

_Not like you should._

_No. Not like I should. Not anymore._

_What do you mean, anymore? When did you _ever_ love him the way you love Carlton? When did you ever love _any_ man the way you love Carlton?_

_I have no response to that._

_Yeah. Stupid woman. Whatever your good intentions and fondest hopes, things changed. Eyes opened_. _Now what?_

_You're the one slinging insults; you tell me._

_End it with Shawn, and throw yourself at Carlton's feet._

_I have no response to that, either._

_Stupid—_

_Yeah, yeah, I know. Stupid woman._

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	5. Chapter 5: Implosion

**CHAPTER FIVE: Implosion  
**

**. . . . . .**

**. . . . .**

_**[- M - **ahead, fainthearted readers**]**_

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"Foul" was not a strong enough word for Juliet's mood as Week Thirteen began.

She had to apologize to Collins for biting his head off... twice. On Monday. Before _lunch_.

Tuesday, she yelled at Buzz McNab for bringing her the wrong colored pen, and had to apologize profusely to get the stricken expression off his normally genial face.

At the station, she kept her back to Carlton as much as possible. She was even angry with _him_, and the less she saw of his glorious blue eyes and long graceful fingers and lean body and glorious blue eyes and that little glimpse of chest hair when his tie was loose, which made her want to rip it off and lick him all over, and by the way, his glorious blue eyes, the better. How dare he be able to drive her nuts when she couldn't even _see_ him? How dare he be noble enough to resist dragging her back to bed but not so noble as to completely hide his need for her, when knowing he felt that way just made her love-want-crave him even more than she already did?

If she ever got a chance, she was going to blow that damned secret door down with a frickin' grenade. Maybe two.

And Shawn. Shawn was on her last damned nerve. He alternated between grinning aren't-I-adorable and grinning but-let's-see-what-I-can-get-away-with. He was so very, very very VERY Shawn.

When she wasn't furious with reality, she was near tears. She did care about Shawn. He could be so sweet and he was so observant and helped solve so many cases and he cared about _her_ tremendously and she knew all that, and could see so much good in him, as well as fun—fun was good; fun was important—and then there was that damned inner voice yelling at her day and night telling her what an idiot she was. Which she was. God, she was such an idiot.

Wednesday, Psych was called in to take a preliminary look at a homicide where any one of eight witnesses could have been the doer. Shawn was in good spirits, oblivious to Juliet's rising blood pressure, and gave his capsule commentary on witnesses one through three without undue tomfoolery.

But witness number _four's_ last name, tragically, was Lassiter.

No relation, no resemblance, not even the same gender.

Nonetheless, Shawn immediately skyrocketed into Lassiter-bashing overdrive, initially by way of telling the woman all the reasons she was lucky to not be Carlton.

Juliet asked him to stop.

Then she _told_ him to stop.

Then she pulled him to one side and hissed at him to stop with her hand on her weapon for emphasis.

Collins even told him to stop. When _Gus_, sensing doom, told him to stop, Shawn was quiet for maybe twenty seconds, but that was as long as he could hold out. He tossed off a line about Carlton's failed marriage which disturbed even the _witness_.

Juliet turned on him, furious. "Shawn, I swear to God, if you say one more thing about Carlton I'm going to knock you flat."

He laughed as she moved away, and she heard Gus urge him to zip it. "But Jules, come on, he's not here, so he's not offended, and it's not like I wouldn't say it to his face anyway. You ought to be joining me. Haven't you felt a lot more free now that he's not here looming over you like a big-eared vulture? Gus, do vultures have ears? Well, if they did, Lassie would—"

Next thing Juliet knew, she was standing over Shawn with a bruised hand. He was holding his nose, which was bleeding, and everyone else was standing back in shock.

"I told you to _shut the hell up_," she snapped, and stalked off.

Halfway to her car she texted Collins that he was lead on this case but would need his own ride back to the station. Then she called Karen Vick's direct line.

"Chief," she began rapidly as soon as Vick answered. "I want you to hear from me personally that I just punched Shawn in the nose at the crime scene. I assume you'll have to suspend me, so I'm going home until I hear from you."

"What?" was all Vick managed. "You did _what_?"

"I'm sorry, it was wrong and unprofessional and against all protocol but I just had enough and he wouldn't shut up so I shut him up." The anger came back, as well as an urgent need to cry, so she swallowed hard and added, "I have to go before I lose it. I'm sorry, Chief." She disconnected, drove nearly blindly to the station, dropped off the Vic, collected her Beetle and went home.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Vick strode out of her office, aiming straight for Lassiter, who knew whatever it was could not by any stretch of the imagination be good. Henry Spencer looked up, curious too. "Detective Lassiter. We have a situation."

Lassiter started to stand, but she motioned him to remain seated.

She glanced at Henry and sighed. "You should hear this too. O'Hara just assaulted Shawn at a crime scene. She's gone home, so I need _you_ to go over there and figure this out. _Now_." Pausing only to shake her head wonderingly, she left the two of them staring at each other.

"The hell?" Lassiter asked, stunned.

Henry said, "Hang on," and picked up his phone. "I'll call Gus. He's incapable of lying to me."

A hundred disconnected thoughts ran through Lassiter's brain while he listened to Henry's end of the conversation, which began with, "Gus, don't waste my time. Just tell me what happened."

Lassiter waited, restless as all get-out, ignoring the little tiny whispery voice which was crowing "_that's my girl!_"

"Uh-huh. Yeah, I can see that... how is he?" Pause. "Okay, well, listen to me, Gus. You keep him away from Juliet. If she was mad enough to hit him, he needs to keep the _hell_ away from her until she's calmed down. Until _he's_ calmed down. You hear me? I know, I know. But you do whatever it takes. Sit on him. Drive him to San Francisco. I don't really care. Just keep. Him. Away. From. Her." He listened for a moment, then hung up.

"What?" Lassiter asked urgently.

Henry seemed bemused. "Juliet told Shawn that if he didn't quit ragging on you, she'd pop him one. He didn't, so now he's got a bloody nose. Gus said she knocked him flat on his ass."

He was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open.

"And why are you still sitting here?" Henry pointed toward the exit. "I'll tell Vick. Go!"

Lassiter went.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He drove entirely too fast getting over there, raced up the steps to her door, then stopped cold.

She wasn't going to want to see him. She was just as likely to pop _him_ in the nose, too, after the way he practically attacked her in the ladies' room last week. There was no reason she would—

_Shut it, Lassiter._

He knocked. Hard. Okay, he _pounded_ on the door.

Juliet pulled it open and stared at him. There were tears on her face and she looked distraught and he thought she was beautiful nonetheless. She breathed his name, very still for only a moment, and then she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight, so tight he could hardly breathe but then again he was hugging her back with equal force because he'd just missed her so damned much.

"Oh, God," she whispered, "I'm so glad you're here." She drew back only far enough to pull him inside, closing the door behind him. "Carlton, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

"What? What are you sorry for?" He grasped her arms, not willing to let her go just yet.

She responded by hugging him again, her damp cheek against his shirt. "I'm sorry I let you down."

"O'Hara, I'll be damned if _you_ ever let me down. What happened with Spencer?" He held her, drinking in the scent of her, thinking _how in the_ hell _did I think I could build up immunity to you?_

She let him go and deposited herself on the sofa gracelessly, very unhappy. "I punched him."

"I heard that part." He sat on the coffee table in front of her. "What I didn't hear was why, exactly."

Now she looked fierce. "Because I'd had it with him constantly putting you down. I'd had it and I told him to shut it and I warned him, but he didn't listen, and then he was down. I don't even really remember doing it but I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry at all. I know I _should_ be sorry. I'm..." she took a breath. "I'm a little sorry that I'm not sorry, but that's it. I'm done with him."

"Because of..." God, he couldn't say it. "Because you were..." _Crap_.

Juliet looked at him, her dark blue eyes intense. "Because it was long past time. Because he's the reason you didn't want to be partners with me anymore, right? And I'd rather have you in my life than him. I would. It shouldn't be like that, but he doesn't operate like other people and I'm tired of everyone else having to adapt to him. I'm tired of _me_ having to adapt to him. And I am so sorry I didn't pop him a long time ago." And with that, she cupped his face and kissed him full on the mouth.

Lassiter was reeling—first with the magic of her lips against his, second from his heart somersaulting in his chest, and third from confusion—but he kissed her back, because hell, how could he not?

She pulled back, searching his face, his eyes, looking so soulful and sorry and unbelievably lovely that he leaned in and kissed her again, and she sighed out a yes against his mouth and tugged at him to join her on the sofa, where they went on kissing.

He tasted her tears and kissed them away, whispering, "I've missed you."

"You shouldn't have kicked me loose," she whispered back, and he felt that old twinge in his chest.

"I had to." He stroked her hair.

"Why, Carlton?" She was earnest. "I never believed it was about growth or experience or resume-building. Please tell me why you separated us."

"Because..." No. He shouldn't. She might fly out the door to be with Shawn if he said it, out of guilt if nothing else.

But if that was likely to happen, he needed to know it now.

Juliet slipped her fingers into his hair, stroking gently. "Please."

"Because he was going to propose to you."

Her hand stilled, and she stared at him silently.

"And I... I could be your partner if you were just dating him, but if you married him, I'd never make it. Never." He disentangled himself from her, moving to the end of the sofa, searching her face as she'd earlier searched his.

She put a trembling hand to her lips, meeting his gaze, her breathing rapid. "Oh, Carlton."

He felt a stab of... pain. Horror. Embarrassment. _Her_ horror and embarrassment.

_But she kissed you just now._ She kissed _you__. _

_She's emotional, that's all._

"No," she said flatly. "I would never have married Shawn. Ever. Even if he asked, which he didn't, and wouldn't have."

"He had a ring."

Juliet frowned.

"I heard him and Gus talking about it."

"Right. So Gus paid for it," she said derisively.

"No, actually I think he stole it from Henry."

She laughed. "Even better. No, Carlton. No. I would never have said yes to him and are you serious? You broke us up because of an incredibly remote possibility?"

A flash of annoyance—pride—took over. "You're his girlfriend. You put up with as much crap as Henry and Gus and you didn't even have the excuse of a lifelong connection with him. You knew he was an ass and you dated him anyway. How in the hell was I supposed to guess you wouldn't marry him too?"

"You could have asked," she shot back.

"Oh, the hell I could," he snapped, and got to his feet. "Do you hear what you're saying? I was supposed to go to my partner and best friend and say hey, I was wondering if I had any reason to think you might actually love your boyfriend enough to marry him? Or should I just moon around over you for another few years?"

She got up too. "Well, if you felt this way for _years_, why didn't you say something _before_ I started dating him?"

Lassiter couldn't believe it. "Declan," he retorted. "Scott Seaver. Luntz. Hell, Lars Ewing. _Partners_. Where was there room for me to think I was ever someone you'd be interested in?"

"Did you _know_ I wasn't?"

"Every damned day!"

"Then you weren't paying attention, Head Detective." Her arms were folded across her chest and her tone was defiant.

"And that's a steaming crock of crap. I watched everything about you, O'Hara. You think I wouldn't have jumped at a chance if I saw one?"

"Yes." She advanced on him, angry now. "Yes. I think you _wouldn't_ have jumped at the chance."

He stared at her, angry himself and also at a loss... because she was most likely right.

"And I couldn't _make_ you jump, could I? Senior partner? Damaged goods? Certain nothing would ever go his way?"

She took another step closer, blue eyes ablaze.

"You know what the worst thing about me is, Carlton? The thing I'm most ashamed of? Even more than punching a man for pissing me off, not that he didn't have it coming because he damned well did?"

"No," he ventured.

"It's that I can honestly admit to you now that I always knew Shawn was a phase. I always knew it would never work out. But you were off limits and he was right there and he cared about me and he was willing to take a chance and I just gave in. I _used_ him. That's a terrible thing for me to have to admit about myself, you know?"

"No," he said again. "You didn't. You didn't use him. You're not like that."

"It doesn't matter if I am. You put me aside," she said sadly.

"No! Dammit, yes, I was selfish. I was thinking about _my_ feelings. You never had to doubt what you were to me as a partner and friend because I told you. But I had no obligation to reveal my heart to someone I was sure... wouldn't want it." He took a breath. "I had to look out for myself, and I thought you would be just fine, professionally _and_ personally."

Juliet took the last step between them and put her hands on his arms. "You are so smart, but such an idiot. My whole life is filled with smart idiot men."

"You don't have to be smart to be an idiot man," he mumbled, and she laughed.

"That's right. Damn you, Carlton Lassiter. Just... oh, screw it," she said breathlessly, and pulled him down to kiss her.

He did not resist, did not want to resist, but would have resisted anyone's suggestion that he resist. Her mouth was hot and perfect and her body like velvet pressed to his.

She began pushing him backwards, still kissing him, and he could tell he was being herded, not that he cared where until he was in her bedroom and she was taking off her blouse and removing his jacket and holster.

"Wait," he said weakly. "We have to—"

"No. We don't have to. We've spent enough time talking and not talking and guessing and guessing wrong and reading each other completely bass-ackwards. I am going to _show_ you. Now. Here. Shut up."

He gripped her arms. "Stop. I'm trying to get _over_ you. You understand?"

"Too damn bad," she said. "Ain't gonna happen. Because I won't let you." Stepping away from him, she took off her bra and stood before him topless and beautiful and extremely annoyed. "I have thought about you nearly nonstop for _months_. At first I was only confused and depressed and upset that you'd shut me out. Then I talked to Henry, who hinted around that you had feelings for me."

Lassiter was horrified again. "Crap on a... cracker of crap!"

"Don't worry." She was dismissive. "He would never tell anyone else. The thing is," and she stepped forward again, grasping his hands and placing them on her breasts, which just about stopped his heart. She sighed briefly, arching into his hands even though he was frozen. "The thing is, after that I started thinking of you in other ways. Not like I had a choice, of course. Mmm... I do love your hands..."

"O'Hara," he said weakly. The silky feel of her breasts—her hardening nipples—against his palms was making him dizzy.

"Kiss me, Carlton." She pushed against his hands. "Everywhere."

"Everywhere?"

"_Everywhere_."

He sat on the edge of the bed, because standing wasn't really possible anymore, and Juliet stayed close in front of him as he touched and stroked her soft skin. She sighed when his lips found her nipple, as did he, and arousal spiked from the simple feel of her flesh against his tongue.

"Yes," she breathed. "More."

And he said... "I have to call Vick."

She paused. "To tell her you're sucking on my nipples?"

"Not exactly." He felt heat flooding his face at the idea of _that_ conversation. "She sent me here to check up on you."

"You didn't come over here on your own?" she asked, her tone a little edgy.

"I would have," he said immediately, and accented this by grasping the waistband of her slacks and tugging down to expose yet more of her lovely body. "Don't you dare think I needed to be told." He kissed her navel, feeling her shuddering, and efficiently slipped her panties down over her hips. She stepped out of both slacks and panties smoothly and put her hands on his shoulders.

"If you're going to call her, you'd better do it now," she advised.

"Phone," he breathed, kissing her hip, stroking her thighs.

She handed him the one from the bedside table, and while he keyed in Vick's number with shaking fingers, Juliet knelt before him and unbuckled his belt, pushing his thighs apart and unzipping his pants before yanking his shirt free and unbuttoning it slowly. Her fingertips grazing his chest were like little points of fire.

"Lassiter," Vick said in his ear. "What's going on?"

He hesitated, because Juliet's wandering fingers had gone south. "Chief," he managed. "I'm here at O'Hara's. She's fine." _Fine. Oh hell yeah fine_.

"What happened?"

_She took off her clothes and demanded I make love to her, and I'm complying_. "She was defending my honor."

"Come again?"

"Spencer was mouthing off about me and she hit him. She's calmer now." _Though_ I'm _not, because that beautiful mouth is about to surround a part of me_... his mind fried. "I'm going to stay with her a while."

Juliet's little laugh sent vibrations along his most sensitive and now highly aroused part.

"All right," Vick agreed, like it mattered right now whether she did or not. "Henry's going to talk to Shawn. Check in with me later."

"Yes, sir," he said, hung up and lay back, gasping.

"Sir," Juliet repeated, laughing as she stroked him, but re-enveloped him with her hot and seeking mouth, thus stopping his ability to speak as well as her own.

He wouldn't last long if she continued that savory activity, and he intended to fulfill her command that he kiss her everywhere, so he stopped her, drawing her up onto the bed with him, allowing her to assist with the removal of his clothing.

It took longer than it should have because she seemed to want to kiss him everywhere too.

In fact, there was a hell of a lot of kissing of all the parts they could both reach while maintaining as much body contact as possible.

Finally, Juliet settled down over his hips, fitting to him in perfect intimacy, her thighs hot against his. For a blissful few moments she rocked—they rocked—together, and then she stopped, becoming absolutely motionless, fixing him with a laser-intensity blue stare.

Clutching his shoulders with hands made of steel, she leaned in, her hair brushing his chest, her nipples warm points of paradise against his skin.

"Do I," she growled, "have your full attention?"

Lassiter gasped out a yes, even though at least one key part of his body was very determinedly _not_ paying attention to anything but its own raging need.

"Are you _sure_?" she persisted.

He pushed up against her, but she would not move in response. "Yes. What the hell else in the world matters besides you?"

Juliet smiled slowly and graced him with a kiss, all too brief, and all too torturous because it brought her full upper body into contact with his and slightly shifted their lower-body connection, just about making his eyes roll back in his head.

"I. Love. You."

Lassiter's heart started pounding with such force that he couldn't believe the whole building wasn't shaking along with it.

"I love you, Carlton. I don't want there to be any question in your mind. Ever. Not about this. I. Love. You. Okay? You get it?"

"Yes," he said, suddenly hoarse.

"Yes?" She squeezed her thighs against his, undulating with deliberate precision, again making pleasure shoot through every nerve ending.

"God, yes," he managed, cupping her face to bring her down for a kiss. "I love you too. In every way. Forever." He pushed up again meaningfully and she lost her stern expression, giving in to the urgent need to go over the edge into mindless ecstasy.

And then there really _wasn't_ any talking for a good long while.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	6. Chapter 6: Renewal

**CHAPTER SIX: New Again  
**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet lay next to Carlton, her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. The room was cool but the bed was warm, and everything was simply... right.

Certainly this was only the eye of the hurricane; she needed to talk to Shawn and she was likely facing suspension for having clocked him, but for now, sleepy in the embrace of her love, she felt nothing but hope and contentment.

The secret door was open wide.

Carlton was hers again at last—only more so, more completely, more wonderfully.

He said softly, "Two months ago. When you came to me. I thought you were... agreeing to let me go."

She tilted her head to see his face, and he turned, his blue gaze curious and yet careful.

"I was. I... it just felt like unfinished business. I felt like you were trying to slip off quietly and I didn't want it to be so easy."

"It was never easy. Not for one damned minute."

The flash of pain in his eyes made her regret saying it. "I know. I know. I'm sorry. I meant I didn't want to be forgotten. I wanted some way to _imprint_ myself on you. If I'd lost you. Which..." she hesitated. "I thought I had."

He didn't say anything, but the pain faded.

"And I wouldn't have come to you at all if I didn't already want you subconsciously."

"Despite Spencer in your life?" The question was level but his hand around her shoulder trembled just a little.

"Yes." She was absolutely sure of it. "Because my life with _you_ came first. It was more complete, even just as friends and partners. I hadn't been taking very good care of our relationship since I started dating Shawn, I know that, and I'm sorry. I let you fall by the wayside too often, and I hate that. But in some way I guess I never doubted you'd always be at my side. So when you cut me off..."

Carlton rolled onto his side and wrapped her up close against him. "I'm sorry."

Juliet kissed his sternum. "No. I understand. You felt you had no choice."

He stroked her hair back with gentle fingers. "It was for nothing. I could have moved to Timbuktu and I'd still be crazy in love with you in ten years."

"Well yeah," she teased, "because after about three months I'd have followed you over there."

He laughed, and kissed her warmly. "You make me think happiness could be possible on a daily basis."

"Can't it be? Maybe not 24/7, but in little pockets here and there throughout the day?"

"Like when you come to the coffee bar so I can see you," he suggested, his voice low.

"Like when I go to the coffee bar so I can see _you_," she agreed. "It's been the highlight of most of my days."

They exchanged a leisurely, smiling kiss, while Carlton insinuated his lean leg between hers.

But he didn't press his advantage. "What happened the day we went to El Cielo?"

Juliet grinned. "I got drunk and threw myself at you." She draped her thigh over his, moving closer.

"Ohhh... right. But I meant what made you call me."

"Ah... I found out Shawn had been in my apartment, rearranging things to suit himself. But I was looking for a fight anyway. I might even have been looking for an excuse to call you." She clamped her thigh around his possessively. "I just... you don't know how much I missed you."

"Mmmm," he sighed. "Yeah, I do, because I missed you that much too. But we didn't have anything like... this... before. What..." he hesitated. "When did it..."

She answered first with a kiss, slow and luscious, tasting his lips and nuzzling his jaw. She didn't think she could explain to him how perfect it felt to be with him intimately. How much of a natural extension it was of their original partnership.

But he wanted some kind of answer, and she was helpless under the draw of his ocean-blue eyes.

"I don't know, Carlton. I guess the simplest answer is that once I'd been to your condo, once I learned how it _could_ be between us, all those little urges I'd had over the years just sort of blossomed. I was supposed to be letting you go, but I couldn't get my heart or subconscious to agree with me. Like..." She paused as realization dawned. "_Oh_."

"What is it?"

She could hardly say the simple words. "There was a secret door to _me_, too."

Carlton looked confused at first, and then slowly smiled. "I thought it was closed when you started dating Spencer."

Juliet was too misty to say more, her heart too full. He kissed her, seeking and needing and loving, and was met with her ardent response. His lean body melded to her softer curves, making them close enough to be one body, one loving and intimate whole.

They never had need of doors again, because there was never again a wall.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Vick glanced at her watch. Three o'clock, and she hadn't heard anything from Lassiter in several hours. Collins wasn't back from the crime scene, which needless to say had been disrupted by the officer-on-consultant scuffle, and she was ready for a damned update.

She called Lassiter's cell phone.

"Chief," he answered briskly. "I was just about to check in."

"What's going on?"

"O'Hara is calm and extremely unlikely to pulverize Spencer again."

"Very funny. Put her on. I'd like to speak to her."

Moments later, Juliet gave her a cautious greeting. "Chief, once again, I apologize for my behavior. I never imagined I could lose control—" She paused; Vick heard Lassiter's voice in the background.

"What's he saying?"

Dryly, she said, "That it was no different from subduing a perp."

Karen chose not to show her agreement aloud. "Just to keep you informed, you know I'll be speaking to and collecting statements from everyone who witnessed the incident, including you. You'll need to come in tomorrow to turn in your own statement."

"Of course, first thing."

"But needless to say, based on department policy, you're suspended without pay for a week. I expect you'll be required to attend an anger management session based on your mandatory meeting with the department psychologist during that time." She sighed. "Truthfully, maybe it should be called a Spencer Management session."

Juliet gave a quiet amen to that.

"I'm sorry, Juliet."

"Oh, Chief—for _what_? It's all me—"

"No, unfortunately, it's not. It's been a group effort, really, which has allowed Shawn to behave the way he does almost unchecked. My _preference_ would be that we don't punch our consultants, but then again, I'd also prefer our consultants behave like adults."

"That would be nice."

Karen added carefully, "I also realize that your personal relationship with Shawn… got… punched today too."

Just as carefully, Juliet answered, "You may assume that my personal relationship with him was in serious trouble before I decked him, and also that it's over now."

"I see." She somehow knew not to express condolences.

"And Chief... thank you for sending Carlton here. It was—_he_ was—exactly what I needed."

"Oh?"

"In _every_ way," Juliet said, and Karen—woman-to-woman—understood precisely what _that_ tone signified.

She wasn't even really surprised, given how both of her detectives had been acting since their split. "Well. Uh… you're welcome?"

Juliet laughed lightly, and Karen imagined Carlton Lassiter sitting nearby blushing. For some reason, the image warmed her heart. Maybe Juliet should have punched Shawn out a long time ago.

After the call concluded, she spotted Collins passing her office door. Summoning him to stop and come in, she waited while he seated himself. He looked worn out and more than a little frazzled.

"Crime scene wrapped up?"

"Finally. Preliminary suggests the closest neighbor did it."

"Spencer was escorted off site after… the incident, right?" Henry had told her about his command to Gus.

"Yes. Thank God," he muttered.

Karen hid a little smile. "Care to give me your _informal_ take on what happened before you write your formal statement?"

He rubbed his temple briefly. "Simple story is that Spencer just wouldn't shut up about Lassiter. We all warned him to can it, but—hell, it seemed like he couldn't. It was like he was some Lassiter-bashing robot with a fried circuit." He looked at her, puzzled. "How can a guy be so smart, and see so many details so fast, but not see someone's about to go off on him?"

"Oh, Detective, you are by no means the first person to ask _that_ question."

"Guess not." He settled into the chair. "Bottom line? _I'd_ have popped him myself about ten minutes before she did. I think it's admirable she lasted that long. I say we give her a damn commendation."

This time she couldn't hide the grin, but kept herself from actually laughing out loud. "All right. Thank you, Collins. When you write up your statement—"

He grinned too. "Don't worry. I'll stick to the facts."

**. . . .  
****. . .**

When Vick called, they were actually showered, dressed, and discussing going out for an early dinner.

El Cielo, of course; that was _their_ restaurant now.

Juliet put her still-damp hair up in a ponytail, and Lassiter admired her upraised arms. She was wearing a blue and yellow sundress and looked so fresh and pretty that he could easily be talked into not going out at all.

"That look," she commented, coming to sit on his lap on the sofa, and immediately slipping one cool hand inside his shirt. "I'm learning that look."

"It's the look which says I'd rather have you than food," he agreed, kissing her and then planting yet more kisses down her neck to her collarbone and back up to her ear. He enjoyed the deliciousness of her shivering in his arms.

"Staying in is good too," she agreed breathlessly.

He slid his hand under her dress, along her smooth thighs, while she nibbled at his earlobe and throat, and if she happened to part her thighs _just so_, well, he didn't mind the favor. Nor did he mind her hand undoing his shirt buttons so she could more fully stroke his chest, and their mouths locked together in heat-seeking intensity—something he was already certain would always be that good between them.

With his other hand, he pulled at the bodice of her sundress, exposing more of the creamy skin underneath.

Juliet arched, her head thrown back, sighing in anticipation as his lips moved unerringly toward her still lace-covered nipple and his other hand moved with deliberate slowness between her legs. "Carlton," she sighed, and he loved the way she sounded, all need and desire and excitement.

Knock. Rapid knocking. An accursedly familiar voice. "Jules! Let me in—we need to talk!"

"Ah, crap," Lassiter hissed, automatically starting to push her out of his lap, the guilt-response in full throttle because according to Spencer (and well, everyone else in the world), what he was interrupting was pure and simple cheating. "I'll go—"

"Stop," she whispered urgently, holding his arms. "You are my best friend and you have every right to be here. Besides, Vick sent you, remember?" She got up and straightened out her dress as Spencer went on knocking.

Lassiter, on his feet, still didn't know what to do. Flee? Stand his ground?

"Carlton, relax," she insisted. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, but she was determined.

He buttoned up his shirt and made sure everything was under control as she padded to the door.

Shawn was inside almost as soon as she opened it. He stopped when he saw Lassiter. "I thought that was your Fusion out there. You can leave now." His face was bruised and he looked tense, but not combative.

Generally speaking, Lassiter didn't like to be told what to do, and this moment was no exception. "I'll leave the room, Spencer, but I don't leave _here_ until Juliet says so."

Juliet immediately said, "You're not leaving. But maybe you should—" She glanced toward the hall, and her bedroom door, and Lassiter knew Spencer didn't miss that. On the other hand, the apartment wasn't exactly the Taj Mahal; where else was he going to go?

He nodded, and went back to the scene of their crime.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Juliet, studying Shawn, felt genuine regret—as well as genuine fondness.

He was uncomfortable, and when she gestured for him to sit, grabbed a pillow to hold in his lap like always, only more tightly this time, as if it were a security blanket.

"Shawn, I apologize for hitting you. I really regret losing control of myself like that."

"Forget about it, Jules. I know I had it coming."

"Nobody _deserves_ to be hit," she said, and she meant it. "I never thought I'd be that kind of person."

"You're not. Funny, because when I was growing up, I never thought _I'd_ be the kind of person who could bug someone enough to get hit." He grimaced. "Not counting my dad. I bugged him plenty."

"_He_ never hit you."

"No, but I was a kid. I'm not a kid anymore. I'm a grown-ass man and I really screwed things up between us."

She met his gaze but said nothing. Not yet.

"Can we fix this?" he asked very quietly.

Now.

"No, Shawn. But not because I hit you."

"You said you'd give me a chance—"

"I did say that, and in the past month you _have_ tried. I know you have. But don't you see? After today, isn't it obvious that if we went forward, it would always be you _trying_ and me trying not to go off on you?"

"Jules…"

"Listen, Shawn. Hitting you—that wasn't right. It wasn't even healthy—I'm sort of looking forward to the mandatory psychologist session during my suspension. It's just that at the moment I hit you, I honestly believed there was no other way to shut you up. What I _should_ have done was handcuff you and have you removed from the scene. But I was so frustrated and angry I couldn't think straight. I don't want to be in a relationship like that. Not anymore. I can't do it."

He leaned forward, into the pillow, sighing. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. There just has to be a way to make things right between us. This all started when Lassie broke you guys up. You haven't been the same since then."

"You're right," she admitted. "Losing Carlton was really hard."

"But... he's here _now_," Shawn said slowly.

"Yes, he is." She wasn't going to say more. If he asked, she'd tell him, but she wasn't going to volunteer it.

"You told me he was your best friend," he went on, still slow and careful.

"He is."

"Should have been me, Jules."

Her heart twinged. "Partnerships make for—"

"I'm tired of hearing about partnerships," he snapped. "I _know_ about partnerships. It's like that with me and Gus."

She remained outwardly calm. "Right. No one understands why it works between you, but it does. It's the same for me, Shawn. Carlton and I _get_ each other the same way you and Gus get each other, and now that we've found our way back, I'm not losing him again. And he's not losing me."

He looked at her, unhappy but resigned.

Then his gaze moved to her upper chest, near the shoulder strap of her sundress.

She willed herself not to blush, because she knew exactly what he was seeing: evidence of Carlton on her skin, a small bruise from his persistently delightful mouth. She'd left a few marks of her own on him. Why the hell had she chosen _this_ dress to wear after their shower?

Shawn didn't say anything... at first.

But he glanced down the hall toward the closed bedroom door. "I guess he's _not_ losing you. I get punched, he gets lucky. Is that how it is?"

Juliet stood up fast, tense again. "Shawn, I'll always care about you. I think you're a remarkable person and I don't regret the time we spent together, or the years of friendship before that. I hope—"

He was waving his arms. "Stop. It's okay. I'm sorry."

She went on more evenly. "I hope you'll continue to offer your services to the police department and if you want to press charges against me for assault, I understand. But I really don't have anything else to say to you right now except I'm sorry things worked out this way."

Shawn stood up too and tossed the pillow to the chair, half-defeated, half-impossible to read. "So am I, Jules. More than you know. Now can I go down the hall and punch Lassie? Sort of a pass-it-on thing?"

Tightly—hands clenched—and knowing she was speaking the absolute frickin' truth, she said, "Go ahead. He'll kick your ass all the way to Ojai."

"Yeah?" A bit belligerent.

"Yeah. And then _I'll_ kick it down to L.A."

He stared at her for a few moments, hazel eyes fierce, but finally relaxed. "All righty then. Just thought I'd throw that out there."

She felt her fists unclenching, and Shawn gave her a small smile, which she was able to return. "So we're clear now."

"Yeah, we are." Leaning in quickly, he kissed her cheek. "Bye, Jules," he whispered against her ear, and then went to the door; no looking back.

A moment later she heard the motorbike engine, and a moment after that, Carlton came out of the bedroom.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Lassiter stood at the window, staring down at Spencer's Norton in the parking lot, the whole time he was in the bedroom. First he'd made the bed, in a lock-the-barn-after-the-horses-hit-the-casinos attempt to conceal the truth, but if Spencer had burst in, he'd have known.

There was nothing to _see_, but he'd know.

He could hear their voices, but not their words. The conversational tone was mostly calm, and that was good. He was marginally afraid Spencer would wangle another chance out of Juliet, but for the first time in his life, optimism—no, _certainty_—overruled the old familiar voices of doubt and insecurity.

He felt Juliet's love even now, like a blanket, or maybe a shield. She _loved_ him and they were a solid unit. Spencer could chip at it, the equivalent of a kid throwing pebbles at the side of a mountain, but he couldn't break it.

Honestly, Lassiter didn't think anyone could. Not now. He smiled, just a little one, allowing himself to feel... happy.

It was damned nice.

After a short while, he saw Spencer going down the steps and to his bike; when he was headed toward the street, Lassiter opened the door and went back to the living room.

Juliet smiled at him, her eyes clear and her love evident. "Hey."

"Everything went okay?"

She crossed the distance between them, resting her head on his chest while he hugged her. "Yes. I think so." She pulled back, touching the small bruise he'd left earlier. "He noticed that. I think he figured it out. But he didn't push it."

"Sorry," he said, at once feeling guilty. "I hope he didn't think—"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure he understands we would have broken up no matter what."

They sat on the sofa, curled up together, and Juliet's fingers moved gently in his hair as she told him about their conversation.

He grinned at the ass-kicking denouement, and she let him kiss her most wickedly. "You're right, you know. You're not losing me. Ever."

"I know," she sighed happily. "Because if you think I won't go all Kathy Bates _Misery_ on _your_ ass, you've got another think coming."

Lassiter laughed.

"I shouldn't be in such a good mood, though," she said more soberly. "I got suspended for punching a civilian today, and I just stomped on a guy's heart."

"O'Hara," he admonished. "You also put mine back together. I happen to think that's a big damn deal."

Juliet kissed him, her mouth sweet fire against his, and after she worked her way back into his lap, she slid her hands into his hair again and kissed his cheeks and forehead. "It is, because you were pretty handy with putting mine back together, too."

"I might have gotten some of the pieces of your heart mixed up with mine during the gluing," he advised her.

She seemed enchanted by the idea, her smile wide and her dark-blue eyes a bit misty.

He touched her lips gently. "A while ago you asked me—after a certain drug-induced sword-wielding incident—what one thing in the world would make me feel better." He gave her a crooked grin. "At the time I wasn't allowed to say _you_. So what one thing would make you feel better now?"

"You," she said promptly.

"You already have me."

"Then…" She studied him a moment. "Okay. I can't go back to work for a week, so you know what I'd really like? I'd like you to take a few days off so we can just be together again."

"But I don't take time off, O'Hara." Hell, he'd take a _year_ off for her.

Juliet squeezed her thighs around his. "No?"

"I _could_ make an exception."

"Would you?" She wriggled in his lap. "For me?"

"I could make all exceptions for you." He pulled her closer for a kiss to prove his point.

"Am I a better partner than Grimaldi?"

Now he laughed. "You really want to go there? I'm about to get you naked and you want to compare partners?"

"What makes you think I'm going to let you get me naked?"

He grasped the hem of her dress and pulled it up, then off, and Juliet did not interfere. "That."

"Oh. So is Grimaldi a better partner?" She stayed his hands when they started to reach around to undo her bra.

"Is Collins?"

Juliet undid his belt. "No. He's not you."

"And Grimaldi's not you," he sighed as her hand went for his zipper.

"So we agree, then. _Your_ brilliant move stuck us both with inferior partners." She licked his earlobe, and he shuddered.

"Yeah," he gasped. "That's about right."

"Okay then." She unhooked her bra herself. "Just wanted to get that out of the way."

"Let's get some other things out of the way too," he growled, pushing her off his lap but only so he could lie beside her on the sofa. "Like your panties."

Juliet dreamily agreed.

And later, they agreed an _off_-duty partnership was going to work out just fine.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

**T H E **

**E N D**

**. . . .**

**. . .**


End file.
